Stop War, Hug More: The 100th Hunger Games
by GryffindorOnFire
Summary: The revolution failed miserably and to the Capitol's delight, the dictatorial government prevailed against all odds. The Districts's suffering prompt the Capitol's applaud. The 4th Quarter Quell is nigh, and the pitiful tributes must bid goodbye. For the wicked arena and sick twist, keeping peace, the Districts wished.
1. Prologue: The First Floor to Hell

"Mordigan!" The man's shouts were unquenchable. His tailor was of impeccable intelligence and Head Gamemaker Lowry's suit was fitted to his every dent. "I command you to obey my calling, now!"

Wasting no time, Lowry' personal assistant, Jameson Mordigan, sashayed into the open terrace, a mug of warm coffee gripped tautly in his hand. "Yes, sir?"

Lowry's hand struck out at his coffee, pulling it towards himself and out of the assisstant's hand. "You must understand, Mordigan," Lowry told him, delicately sipping his brewing, making sure not to drip the teeniest of drops onto his attire. "Tomorrow is the most special of days. You do know what it is, am I correct?"

Mordigan was quick to answer. Part of his training to serve the Great Nobility Echelon is to be aware of all happening events to please his assigned liege. "The Quarter Quell announcement, sir."

Lowry nodded his head, satisfied with his assistant's knowledge. "The 4th one, at that. And a century of Hunger Games makes it all the more exciting. I would advise you to stockpile your coffee stash, Mordigan. Because in all honesty, a seemingly, never-ending string of stress-induced migraines are going to be coming from me," the stout man informed his subordinate. "In my defense, I've committed to a difficult job. Pleasing the Capitol, much less _Panem_ , has a great standard." With that, he waved Mordigan away. Once the overly-tall man left the balcony, Lowry looked unto the horizon of blinking lights and hearty laughter echoing from the streets below.

 _Oh, how blind-sided Mordigan is,_ Lowry thought _, much more than a Quell is going to occur. A revolution will._

Mordigan's laughter joined those on the streets because he knew. He knew what was going to be pulled out of the box tomorrow afternoon, at the sun's peak.

 _"On the 100th anniversary, to remind those of rebel circumstances that it was they who committed high treason against us and put the Capitol through barbaric situations, the tributes of the 4th Quarter Quell will be chosen from the most notorious prisons of Panem."_


	2. Prologue Part 2: The Life of Lux

Ingrid Crayle:

There used to be 74 of us before the Second War. Oh, the Second War. Fire, ashes. Comets of fire that streaked across the ebony sky, setting ablaze the cotton mills that littered District Eight. They've been rebuilt; now they're ugly, decrepit little shacks authorities dared to call labor conditions. Oh, screw that.

The only time my heart gets so consumed with euphoria is when I visit the Capitol, leading my two lambs behind me to the stockyard. Then, they get cut down at the Bloodbath, a knife sticking out of their throats. All because of one mistake, one accident that left the Arena: me.

It was the 76th Anniversary of the Hunger Games, although it had been three whole years since the Quarter Quell. The Capitol was harsh, brutal and took every chance they had to throw the Districts into terror. First it was the lack of food, then the water dried up and then they started the killing. Thousands of my people slaughtered just to prove a point. And to further demonstrate the Capitol's untouchable power, they threw me into the Arena. They launched _us_ into that wicked, horror-show they call reality television. Oh, yeah, sure. Reality, is it? I'll show you real when I take my rapier and shove it up your一 nevermind.

The Gamemakers were determined to show us their unquenchable thirst for blood. Did you Careers think you were invincible? Nopity-nope, we'll drop you down into a ravine that ends nowhere. Did you Threes think you were so smart? Nopity-nope, we'll burn you alive until you're nothing but a charred pile of meat. Did you Eights think you could provide your treasonous armies with soldier wardrobe and get away with it? Nopity-nope, we're going to send a pack of ravenous fox hounds after you until they tear the flesh off your bones. It was revealed to me that the Gamemakers had planned for no Victor to be enlisted that year. Little did they know that tiny, afraid, soft-spoken girl from Eight had shoved her partner to the foxes until she managed to evade them, then cut down after their stomachs were so full that they couldn't attack properly. So, when Caesar Flickerman announced the conclusion of the 76th Hunger Games without any Victor and Ingrid Crayle crawled out of the trench she dug herself in, the looks on the faces of every official was priceless. It was also priceless when they choked on their own blood after eating that delicious roasted duck President Snow offered them at the Afterparty.

So I sat there, playing with my thumbs as the Mayor droned on and on and on and on. And on, about how everyone one of us little sheep should strain our backs and bow to our beloved Capitol. Well, screw that. When the Escort of the 100th Hunger Games pulled the names out of the large, crystal bowls一 I didn't bother to look.


	3. Our Tributes

**Hello readers! I would like to thank everyone so much for this amazing opportunity! When I first decided to write this SYOT, I never expected to receive such amazing and creative tributes. Many tributes were accepted and very few were denied. But, nonetheless, thank you everyone for taking the time and submitting to this SYOT. This story, our story, can finally begin. Without further ado, our tributes for the 100th Annual Hunger Games:**

 **District One:**

 _Male:_ Glory Prosperous, 18 _(submitted by Blue Eyes Arch Angel)_

 _Female:_ Garnet Hathaway, 17 _(submitted by dreams and desperation)_

 **District Two:**

 _Male:_ Kit Cordett, 18 _(submitted by LokiThisIsMadness)_

 _Female:_ Paget Brenner, 18 (submitted by We're All Okay)

 **District Three:**

 _Male:_ Tallis Windsor, 16 _(submitted by heavydirtysoul)_

 _Female:_ Electra Edison, 16 _(submitted by Music Rules the World)_

 **District Four:**

 _Male:_ Hudson Arroya, 18 _(submitted by CreativeAJL)_

 _Female:_ Cari Williams _,_ 17 _(submitted by Phangirl4044)_

 **District Five:**

 _Male:_ Wyatt Sparkley, 17 _(submitted by FalknerBlue)_

 _Female:_ Elizabeth Millenium, 15 _(submitted by ThomasHungerGamesFan)_

 **District Six:**

 _Male:_ Zackary Delancey, 17 _(submitted by WizardDemigodGladerGatekeeper)_

 _Female:_ Kara Arsenault, 17 _(submitted by betttyy)_

 **District Seven:**

 _Male:_ Easton Faraday, 16 _(submitted by District11- Olive)_

 _Female:_ Rowanne Barker, 18 _(submitted by witches always return)_

 **District Eight:**

 _Male:_ Jute Drason, 16 _(submitted by Reader Castellan)_

 _Female:_ Soie Dentelle, 18 _(submitted by_ CrucioHime)

 **District Nine:**

 _Male:_ Tiller Storm, 18 _(submitted by Kgunzrok)_

 _Female:_ Etsumi Jukudo _,_ 16 _(submitted by Blue Eyes Arch Angel)_

 **District Ten:**

 _Male:_ Shepard Sutton, 13 _(submitted by Mystical Pine Forest)_

 _Female:_ Minx Lovelace, 18 _(submitted by GryffindorOnFire)_

 **District Eleven:**

 _Male:_ Caspar Holden, 18 _(submitted by chocolate chip homicide)_

 _Female:_ Talya River, 17 _(submitted by chocolate chip homicide)_

 **District Twelve:**

 _Male:_ Troye Coalton, 15 _(submitted by FabulousAbby)_

 _Female:_ Sylvie Anderson, 13 _(submitted by chocolate chip homicide)_

President Leonides looked up from his ornately-fashioned desk, polished with real spruce wood all the way from the most prestigious franchises of District Seven. He merely looked around the room, as the portraits from District Eight hung warily on the wall and the flowers on his desktop bloomed from District Eleven. The deathly silence startled him, the sunlight rays casting shadows across his archaic walls, painted with acrylic from District One. The lead of which his pen he was tapping on the desk was shipped right from District Two and the presidential database he was constantly punching buttons into was programmed by District Three. He would be eating a fantastic supper tonight, a feast composed of crawfish from District Four, grilled steak from District Ten, seasoned garlic bread from District Nine and a fine whiskey all the way from District Six, which were all transported to the Capitol on high-speed, new-tech trains powered by the hydroelectric dams in the heart of District Five. The warmth in his office was burning bright on the charcoal from District Twelve, even the gasoline was shipped from the so-called dormant District Thirteen.

Everything in the Capitol was weaved together by the interlocked Districts under the Capitol's full command. These Hunger Games will be special, they _are_ the Fourth of the Quarter Quell tradition, after all. They may be the reason we're all connected, or they may be the reason we're all doomed.


	4. Pre-Reaping: The Sky is Falling

**Hello there! Our story has finally begun and with the method I'm using to write the Preliminary Chapters, I think we'll be getting to the actual Games pretty soon. It'll be a District per chapter, so two tributes featured in each. Without further ado, our first pair of tributes…**

 **xxx**

 _Glory Prosperous, District One, Pre-Reaping:_

You can still smell the blood in Glory's cell. The jail itself nothing of spectacularity, a musty metal cage designed to hold misfits, unlike Glory. No, he was一 is smart, cunning, the top of my class; he doesn't belong in this prison. He's not some mindless, dumb ox like the rest of those brainwashed trainees in the District Academy for Gifted Youth. Those idiot pests perish in the Hunger Games like the bugs they were meant to be. Oh, they won't be laughing at Glory anymore when his hands close around-

"Hey Prosperous," a Peacekeeper says outside the bars of Glory's cell. "We're going to be the best of buds, hanging in here for life. This little ol' thing they call a prison, don't they?"

"I'd appreciate your reticence, you low-life drunk," Glory calls back, rolling his eyes in irritation. The guards always do this, attempt to arouse some type of riot in the cells so they have an excuse to beat the prisoners with their batons. The man whose shouting at Glory isn't his regular guard, he must be a newbie. Hmm, lets have some fun, shall we?

"Mister Guardman," He cooes, an endearing smile glued to his lustrous face. Glory must be irresistible, with his absolutely adorable eyes and cute, little button nose. He probably looks like those fashion models in the magazines the Peacekeepers read all day. "We can be better than buds when I get out of here. If you're catching my drift."

"I don't see no tides, boy. We ain't in Four, ain't we?"

Glory almost want to punch himself in the face. Goddammit, can these Twos get any more idiotic? Just like that fugitive from Two who found refuge in Glory's empire of thieves. He had clothed the fugitive boy, fed him and gave him a home. How did he repay Glory? He sold him out to the Peacekeepers. Luckily, during Glory's commandment, hw had two key advisors who played a vital part in the success of his thieving company. His own brother Majesty, a skilled and seemingly innocent individual who played to the pity of his victims. He sat at Glory's right hand, spoon-feeding him direct information and tactical suggestions. At his left side stood Desdemona, or Dessi for short, who knew exactly which minion was on the brink of betrayal. She even eliminated them herself, though Glory does have to admit, Dessi sort of invoked something not unlike fear deep inside of him. To be honest, he couldn't really pinpoint emotions. He had never really known fear….or love.

It was all an anomaly, the ringleader of an empire of muggers and his left-hand woman. They seemed like an unlikely couple, both seen only as business partners. But they both knew deep down that it was more than that. It was more than a mere work relationship, they were more than friends with benefits. They were lovers, a cruel, wicked rendition of one, but lovers nonetheless. But there was one issue, one flaw in the masterplan: Glory didn't know how to love.

Sure, he know a thousand different ways to kill a man using only a clipped fingernail. Sure, he was able to pickpocket a Capitol liaison a million dollars into debt. But he couldn't love, no, romance was not an option. Love affairs were a weakness, they would be his only problem. If someone found out he had a lover, no doubt they would spin that to their advantage. He's seen it too many times, on the Hunger Games on television or the Capitol soap operas Glory's mother used to be able to afford. They'd capture the girl, torture her until her partner gave in and as a result, they both died. They both succumbed to their weaknesses and NO! He will never die like them, Glory will not die a miserable, love-induced coward.

"Hey boy!" The Peacekeeper shouts, shaking him from his dreams. "Ain't you listenin' to me?"

"I sure am," Glory responds, reaching his hands out of the cracks in the bars, "let me feel you, sir. Feel your gracious, muscular…" Then as the Peacekeeper inched closer, his sexual attracting increasing by the second, Glory's rugged hands closed around the Guard's throat. Glory gripped it tight, attempted to wring it out of proportion. The man raises a hand to his neck, clawing as if he could scratch his way out of the hold. Nearby Peacekeepers strain to see what the commotion is all about, right in time to see one of their comrades getting choke from right outside his post. They rush to help him, screaming obscenities at Glory to get him to let go.

He didn't.

The man died on the job, his lungs slowly giving out from under him and he collapsed in a pallid heap. Then, Glory laughed and laughed. He laughed as the Peacekeepers dragged him by his arms out of his cell, not bothering to lock a pair of cuffs around his wrists. He laughed as they hauled him to the a wooden pike and strapped him to it.

He laughed when they brought out the prison's most notorious torturer. He was spluttering blood as he laughed when they threw him back into the cell.

No, Glory will never give his hellhole of a District the satisfaction of watching him wallow in his sadness. They will never, ever see him shed an ounce of sympathy.

When he comes back from the Hunger Games, his first task is going to be burning this place down.

Then it dawns on him, will the other inhabitants of District Two see him suffer in the Arena? Will they watch him fight for his life, possibly die at the hands of another teenager? Surely not, Glory reassures himself. When he enters that Arena, he's doing so ablaze in glory and wrapped in the loincloths of victory. No one, not even the most disreputable criminals, will stand a chance against him.

Oh, he'll show them. He'll show them all.

"Glory?" A miniscule, barely audible voice cries from the cell beside him. Miracle, the girl who tried to murder her parents after they cut off her allowance. To be bluntly truthful, she's absolutely insane.

"Yes, Miracle?"

"What did they do to you? Why were you laughing?"

"Patience, Miracle. In due time, you will know why," he responds in a respective manner, pulling himself onto his wistful, pathetic cot. Every muscle was lined with ache, sending pulses of exhaustion pounding at his skull. His eyelids felt extremely heavy, as if he could drift to sleep in the nick of time.

"Glory? Hello?"

"What is it, Miracle?" He had to restrain himself from outright shouting at her. "What do you so constantly persist to ask me about?"

"Are you going to Volunteer tomorrow?"

"..." It takes me a moment to process what she said and another to respond, "Yes."

"Why?"

Because I'm going to be put to death like an old dog anyway, no matter what I do. I have no chance of parole, and quite frankly, I don't think I could solemnly swear to be a good, rule-abiding citizen. In fact, I'm certain I would only be up to no good. And I like to portray myself as the honest man I am. Instead he says, "because I'm bored to staying in here. Why, are you going to, Miracle?"

"Of course not! I would rather wait until I'm released," Miracle declared with a dignant huff before sitting on her bed. Glory knows she's sitting because a string of creaks follow the silence.

So be it, he rests his eyes. He lets the darkness take over his body, reserving his quantities of energy for tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The day that will determine the rest of his life.

 _Garnet Hathaway, District One, Pre-Reaping:_

"La, la, la, la!"

The corridors of the prison echo with the melody of Garnet's voice. It's harmoniously sweet, like the nectar the honeybees carry from the cores of the tulips to the hives. She should know, she's a first hand witness since she watches them from the window in her cell.

The lunch bell has finally been rung, the sound still lingering even as it ceased. They're letting the prisoners have lunch in the cafeteria today.

"Hey, shut it," an old Peacekeeper grunted, dragging her along, "or else we'll have to cut out your tongue."

That silenced her. She clamped her mouth shut, putting a perfectly manicured nail over her mouth for effect. What can she say? Fashion is inevitable, even in prisons. Garnet's beauty secrets? There's an old woman around here, but she's hard to find if you don't know who you're looking for.

But even the Guards can't stomp over my ecstatic flame. They get to have lunch outside of their cells today, not the dirty muck they dare to call food they feed us on metal trays.

I remember my old days at the District Academy. We barely had any time for meals, mostly it was just drills and training jammed into our schedules. I absolutely despised it.

Slash that, fight her, don't stop. It was repetition, a cycle that never ended. And what did it get us? 46 dead children and 4 despicable Victors? Were the endless hours of boot camp that pushed Garnet on the verge of surrendering her Trainee Badge really worth it?

Only time would tell, until one day a trainer became to grow extremely stress. At the end of Garnet's practice session, she strode over to the back alley to get a breath of air. Then, as if appearing from thin air, a young trainer attacked her and assaulted her before robbing her of her money. In her ignorance, she'd carried all her cash she'd saved up to propose to her boyfriend. Now, it was all gone. A couple thousand dollars flushed down the dormitory toilets.

Oh, Garnet wasn't melancholic or pitiful. She wasn't worried or ashamed. No, she was mad. Her blood was boiled, the rage reaching her brain. It seized her entirely, fury controlling her every action. So, she gathered a group of desperate, new trainees and in the dead of the night, broke into a jewelry store. Her vision was fogged with red as she threw open cabinets, flinging open locked doors until she found something, anything valuable.

Then, the Peacekeepers came.

It was absolute chaos, a herd of frightened children dashing around the store. But Garnet, she stood as still as the drills that cut into diamond. She looked around her, the devastated shop torn to ribbons. Because of her.

From that day onwards, Garnet swore to always keep a clear mind. She promised herself she would never get so angry as to do something she'd regret forever.

"Ey, watch where you're going." It felt like she bumped straight into a brick wall, but when she looks up, its none other than dreamy Glory Properous.

Oh, he was so handsome. His face was carved like the jewels in that shop and his eyes shimmered like the rubies that flashed on the store display.

"Oh….um," Garnet manages to choke out, a fierce blush blossoming on her cheeks, "yeah, sorry. I mean, proper introduction, I mean. Hi."

Glory gives her a perplexed look before returning to his dignant stride. He walked over to an empty table, all inmates who were headed towards there scurrying off to their respected areas.

Garnet doesn't like calling them inmates. It makes it seem as if they were sealed, or trapped. It made her feel disgusted. She prefers the term, jail occupant. It's much more formal and respectable, even.

It takes me a couple seconds to regain my thought process, blinking a couple times.

Maybe I should go up to talk to him, get in a few charming words?

He growls at an older boy who attempts to sit across from him, the fiery glare in his eyes was enough to frighten the Devil off. In an instant, she change my course of direction and head towards a table composed of mainly females.

"Hey gals," Garnet cheerfully says, taking a seat on the lunch bench. Her group of so-called friends eye her indifferently, some look puzzled and others even scared.

"Is something wrong?" Garnet stares back at her buddies, picking at her prison lunch. It was composed of mystery meat, a portion of asparagus and… grinded carrots? Just looking at it made her retch.

Then, as the confusion grew increasingly tense, the answer popped into Garnet's mind.

 _Reaping Day._

Her eyes furrowed in disbelief; she almost spit back out her mashed carrots. "That's why you're all scared? 'Cause of Reaping Day?"

"Ain't it obvious?" A larger, buffer girl spoke, Buffy, her name was. Garnet and Buffy has tussled a few times out in the Women's Court. Buffy has attempted several times to break Garnet's foot, but could never get ahold of her. Garnet was very slippery and difficult to catch.

"No, actually," Garnet admitted, shrugging, "it isn't like we have that much of a chance? I mean, what? There's like another hundred of us girls here. They have as much of a chance as all of us."

"Well, yeah. Sure, you got it safer. All you don' did was rob a jewelry shop. And it didn't even work."

"Hey," Garnet stood, her blood beginning to boil faster than the slop she ate, "shut your mouth. Don't speak to me like that."

Buffy followed suit, slamming her plate onto the table for additional dramatic purposes. Almost immediately, all eyes flew to us.

They stared like hawks, even the girls at the table turned to look up to see what was going on.

Then, without much hesitation nor thought, Buffy flung herself across the table. Her muscly hands almost clasped around Garnet's throat, if the smaller girl didn't throw herself backwards.

Buffy swept her entire body across the table, sending trays of food and water twirling through the cafeteria. But the one thing that threw the room into chaos was:

A tray consisting of over-filled slop slammed right into Glory Prosperous' head.

You couldn't even see Buffy and Garnet now, who were throwing punches as they wrestled on the ground. Garnet managed to slip from Buffy's possession, dodging flying cups and plastic forks.

It was pure bliss, the best time anyone had in the prison ever. Adrenaline rushed through Garnet, urging her to keep kicking and thrashing until Buffy was sore and aching.

It was all fun and games. Right up until Garnet ran right into the Warden's open arms.

 **Twenty Minutes Later…**

"Garnet Hathaway," Warden Abertree asked, his glasses tipped over the bridge of his nose, "do you understand the amount of mass disruption you've caused in the cafeteria today?"

Garnet played with her prisoner's shirt, fiddling with the orange cuff. She outwardly bit her lip, a tomato-red blush overwhelming her cheeks.

"Not really," she dares to answer, almost trembling in her seat. What if he hits her again?

"How so?" The Warden says instead, a comical look on his wrinkly, seamed face. His snub-nose twitched upwards, as if he was trying to smell the sarcasm.

"Well, as you know, today is two of ours last day in the Prison. Tomorrow is the Reaping Day," she explains with an apprehensive look. "I figured we could've enjoyed our last day."

"Enjoy it by engaging in a full-force riot? Please, Miss Hathaway, I doubt two broken legs, a fractured ribcage and an impaled eyeball is your definition of… fun."

Garnet winced at the thought of being stabbed in the eye.

"No," she finally said, after a couple moments of unaddressed silence. It still rings through her ears, taunting her. To say something, to get herself punished.

She pushed the inward voice down, swallowing her temptations. If she adhered to her internal thoughts, she'd be sure to do something she'd regret.

"Very well. It seems we have come to a proper conclusion," Warden Abertree says, lifting up his round glasses. "Now go to your sleeping quarters, I will have to decide the appropriate consequence for your impulsive actions tomorrow."

"Yes, Warden, sir," Garnet began, taking it as an excuse. She stood, pushing her chair back in with a frown. "Wait, what about Buffy?"

"A suitable penance had been placed for Miss Donovan as well," he said, "but that is none of your concern. Carry on before you receive another sitation."

That got Garnet bustling along, springing down the halls guided by the Guards.

They shoved her forcefully into the solitary cell, closing the metal door before she could offer an objection.

She sat atop her cot, her mind wandering to places unknown. Maybe she should Volunteer, she'll show them.

Or she'll be arranged to be Reaped. She almost jumped up, but her muscles were too sore and begged for mercy. That was it! Definitely, she would be punished that way. Very well…

Garnet laid onto the hardened bed, shivering as the District One confinement facility air welcomed her. It breathed on her, breaths of a guilt and regret. It caresses her skin, desperate to feel something human, something to grasp onto.

All of her feelings when she was first placed in the District Prison consumed her, enveloping her in deep, profound thought.

Oh, she'll show them. She'll show Buffy, Warden Abertree, her posse, the group she led into the jewelry shopー she'll show them all.

She's going to prove to them that she's not so little and naive. She isn't so idiotic she got caught.

No, Garnet Hathaway is going to show all her doubters that she can win. No matter what it takes. And no one, not even Glory Prosperous, will ever stand in her way again.

 **xxx**

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hello all. Hope you liked Glory and Garnet! The next chapter will be the Reaping and it'll be District Two. Look forward to it.**


	5. Reaping: Death is Calling

**Hope you like the frequent updates, yet it might be little slower over the next few days. Also, perspectives will change from First Person to Second randomly. Sorry! D:**

 **xxx**

 _Paget Brenner, District Two, Reaping:_

"Hey Brenner," a stinging voice taunts, "why don't you pants the Peacekeeper again, see what happens."

I wince at the malicious tone, struggling to keep my pace as the pace as the Peacekeeper drags us forward.

My hands are cuffed with metal chains that dig into the flesh of my cocoa complexion. It leaves penetrated, deep red marks. They're kind of pretty, if you look at them at the right angle.

"Do it! Do it! Do it!"

I have to silence their insistent voices, shutting my eyes to prevent myself from doing something I'd regret. Three years ago, she wouldn't hesitate before pounding their skulls into the ground.

Now, all she can do is whimper and try to ignore them.

"Don't listen to them," Peacekeeper Maura advises me, sending a sympathetic look towards me way. I don't respond with any measure of emotion.

Instead, she turns back with a disappointed face and continued to pull us along. The District watched us, with judging eyes and frightened whispers.

 _Don't go close to those children, kids. They're evil._

I almost burst into outright laugh. It's a cruel type of irony, how the one who killed my father isn't in this hellhole with me and I'm being called the monster.

"Hurry up, Brenner," a gruff voice urged, pulling me along. We were dragged* in shackles, our faces grim and worried.

We were District Two, the patriots claim. We should be happy we're entering a Deathmatch.

Well, you know what I say to that? F*ck that.

A pale, scruffy lady checks us in at the official Registering Booth, eyeing us with a suspicious glare. It's like she expects us to run off, bolt away in a desperation of fear.

We might be flighty, twitchy and troubled, but we'd never run from fate. Most of us, especially me, have accepted that we got what's coming to us. Whether it's manslaughter, theft or unpermitted prostitutionー what goes around, comes around.

It brings back to many memories, most of which are all bad.

Blood, flesh, desperate pleas for help. At my hand, at the end of my blade. It's traumatic, enough to send a girl insane.

But not me. I'll never let this burden withhold me. Even if it's caving in, slowly, then all at once.

It's inevitable, the mental collapse that's going to purge me. I still remember him, that masked man.

He smelled vaguely of sewer, the trash in our garbage and even carried the stink of moldy bread. It was an excruciating stench, one that sent both my father and I into a series of coughs.

Then, he stuck a knife into my father's belly and next thing I know, the kitchen blade is wedged in his throat.

I still remember the sirens, the groping hands as they dragged me away, muttering god-awful words into my ear.

 _You murderer. Father-killing b*tch. Remorseless, insensitive. Insane._

They're voices still haunt me today, sometimes I can't really tell if they're there or not.

I still try to reassure myself. It was an accident. I didn't mean to kill that man; I was blinded by anger. I was a child, I shouldn't be of blame.

But deep inside my chest, a residing voice strains to shout the truth at me. A part of me believes that voice, coming to a consensus with my demons. I liked it: I liked the warm, gooey blood staining my hands and the aroma of death brings joy to my nostrils.

It's not true. Or so I hopes.

"Stay still," a snappy, eager voice snaps. It's the registering lady, snapping her out of her stupor. "Stop shaking or else this will be longer than it needs to me."

Shecan barely feel the stinging pinch as she injects the needle into my wrist. I swear she smiled when I grimaced, I swear she takes pleasure in my pain.

I don't have enough time to report her because in less than two seconds, the crowd has thrown me into the stockyard. The District Two Town Square.

It's bustling with official-looking individuals, carrying stacks of paper that must be important. I wonder what it's like to work one of those jobs.

A carefree life, while the income is extremely high as well. It must be fun living the Capitol life. Instead, I'm stuck here. Wailing, sobbing and being thrown to the side— a worthless being that no one pays attention to. Oh, I'll show them. I'll show them all when–

"Hey, watch where you're going, dipshit," Adella Romanov grunts, unashamedly shoving me out of her path. "Before you do something you'd regret."

"I've already done something I've regret. Looking at you," I blatantly responds, before realizing what I just said. In a second, my hands were raised over my mouth as if I could cover what I just blurted out.

Adella seemed furious, her face a growing red. Her fists began to clench at her sides, her breath turning to shallow gasps. With a shout of anger, she lunged.

I was unable to block and Adella's fist made impact. I was flung backwards, reduced to a whimpering girl who tried to block the punches. 

Adella pounds me over and over, sending me to the ground in a heap of blood and bruises. I tried to empty my mind, tried to squirm from Adella's grasp. It was a futile attempt at escape.

Then, a string of cracks followed the pain as Adella stomped on my fingers. I cried out in pain, barely able to even close my hand anymore. The punches kept coming, making contact with my face and chest. I had already surrendered, curled on the floor in a fetal ball. It no longer hurt me, more like a couple of socks to my body.

It felt like I was watching the brutality from outside my own body, watching as Adella beat me to a pulp and I was unable to defend myself. The Peacekeepers looked like they were going to intercept, but then they just let us fight it out.

They were prisoners, their eyes seemed to say, let them have at it. Only Maura seemed to care, tugging at her sleeve with guilty eyes.

"Savages."

"Pigs. Scum."

I seemed to hear the insults echo around me, assaulting me as their stinging words beat at my mind.

Finally, Maura urged her fellow comrades forward and they tore the two of us apart. One was beaten bloody and the other without a single scratch. It was an unfair fight, one with a formidable victor.

People continued to whisper as they stared at me with a disgusted and shameful look. I looked down at my shoes, hoping to get rid of their wandering eyes that locked into my mind.

The Reaping started immediately, hoping to draw the attention away from the brawl.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Reaping of the 100th Hunger Games," the Mayor droned on, reciting the same speech that his ancestors had spoken for a century.

I didn't listen. I remained looking at her battered, rock-dusted shoes. I still remembers where I got them.

I'd been walking home from the quarry barefoot, after losing my mason's boots in the extraction site. I wore a thick coat of dust that showered my hazelnut hair and made my tanned complexion seem wan.

An aged Peacekeeper was patrolling the streets, hoping for something to happen so she could actually do something. When she graduated from the District Academy for Extracurricular Activities, she expected to become a renowned Victor of the Hunger Games. Instead, she was the last one during the race to the stage and enlisted to become a Peacekeeper.

"Hey girl," the Peacekeeper asked, putting a hand on my shoulder, "what're you doing out here at night?"

"Working, miss," I responded with a cool statement and a wide smile. The Peacekeeper looked at me scraped feet and took off her own boots.

"Here you go," she offered, handing me the shoes, "take them. You need it more than I do. My name is Maura. Nice to meet you."

A single cough shook me from my thoughts, sending me into a frenzy of panic in the real world.

"Paget Brenner? Where are you, dear?" The Escort cooed on stage, holding a hand to her brow as if she was searching for the missing tribute when the Peacekeepers are doing all the looking.

Then, it clicked into place. The Escort was calling my name on the stage because the white slip had my alias on it. I was Reaped.

"No," I whispered, "No. NO! NO!" I jerked from her spot, every muscle screaming at me to stop and every limb soaring with ache.

I was shoved into the aisle by a grinning Adella, her sharp eyes glinting with satisfaction.

I started to scream when the Peacekeepers took ahold of me and I thrashed violently in their arms. I started to shout, tears spilling down my cheeks.

"No, please, don't take me! Please!"

I was still screaming as they yanked me up the stage, much to the Escort's annoyance.

My throat felt dry now, scraping at the back of my neck. I shouted, sobbing for her family even as they pulled me into the Justice Building, right up until the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head.

"Stop screaming," Maura said, right before she pulled the trigger.

 _Kit Cordett, District Two, Reaping:_

The air is cold this morning, the frigid winds whistling a tune as they blow past his ear. The chains encasing his hands rattle as the breeze greets Kit, whispering to be unlocked.

The Peacekeeper that's leading Kit and his fellow prison-mates grunts as he pulls them along, a jagged scar running across his eye. This trait will define him, curse his once handsome face with hideous defect. A wound that Kit gifted the Peacekeeper with in his youth.

Kit had a past with his man, one that wouldn't have occurred if it weren't for the Peacekeepers idiocy.

Kit looked away, hoping to turn in his head in another direction to distract him from the reality. He doesn't like dwelling in history.

That's when he saw her, in all her glorious and utter beauty. Rebekah. His girlfriend and the mother to his only child.

She was draped in a white dress, one that billowed around her ankles and little ornaments of jewelry were clasped on her neck and wrists. But by her side stood a young child, who mustn't have been over the age of five. The boy had wavy, tangled red hair, just like his mother.

He stood still, tugging on his mother's hand. His face was shaped like a diamond, smooth and shimmering. His face wasn't scared nor sad, it was curious. Pure inquisition. In a similar way, he reminded Kit of himself.

When Kit was younger, he never stood still. His older brother whom he had a close bond with, Torrell, liked to tease him about his disability to sit down. 'Squirrel' was the word he used to describe Kit. The younger boy hated the nickname.

Now, staring at this boy, his _son_ , he could see what his brother meant.

Then, the vision was ruined as a grotesque, malnourished figure stepped into view. The man was ugly, beaten beyond repair. His skin was lined with stitches, to close the wounds that he was bleeding to death from so long ago. His nose was a eerily punched inside of his head, making him look vaguely like a storybook villain in an American book published so long ago. It made Kit chuckle with triviality.

The man stared at Kit with a despicable gaze, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his sister's boyfriend. His name was Omar, a man who condemned Kit to prison so long ago.

Kit tried to get a clearer look at him, but unfortunately, the Peacekeeper pulled them like cattle to the Registering Booth. His mind wandered at the picture of his girlfriend and her vile pig that calls itself her brother, Omar.

"Finger, please," the woman below him asked, a nice smile on her face. She was different from the other stoic, stiff check-in officers. She was actually very attractive, with cascading onyx hair and heightened features, But Kit vowed to never have intimate feelings for anyone besides Rebekah, thus he treated her like an ordinary woman.

Kit looked down at her, blinking twice before giving her his finger. She gently pricked it with her needle, a small sensation swarmed into Kit's finger. He was used to it by now, after getting so many injections in the prison for behavior control. It was mandatory, or so they say.

The woman did have a bruise on her neck, or was it? Maybe it was a hickey, but the brown/red lining opposed so. She must've had an affair with her husband or she was assaulted. Nevertheless, it mattered little to Kit.

She cleaned the small bubble of blood that began to form on his index finger and stamped it onto some papyrus paper before gesturing for him to enter the 18-year-olds section. He still remembered the Reapings from half a decade ago.

His younger brother, Shea, once stood gently weeping in the stands, watching as his two older brothers signed into the death lottery. His only sister, London, was by Shea's side, clinging to his leg. She was frightened, as Shea silently cried. Kit remembered wanting to rush to their sides, ushering them to safety. And then he thought of Bex.

Rebekah was the same age as him and he often saw her in the stands next to him. Her fiery crimson hair stood out in a group of slick black-haired children. As did her matching charismatic attitude, of which she used to defend herself against the guys stupid enough to try and bully her.

Now, she was behind a velvet rope, wishing to be next to her boyfriend who was bound to chosen into a death match.

A series of grasp traveled across the Square, silent murmurs and judgemental whispers directed at the pair of girls who beat each other on the ground. Well, to be correct, only one of them was doing the beating.

The larger girl was pounding the other into the ground. Her biceps contracting every time she seemed to make a punch, but she never studied her victim. Offhandedly, Kit made a note that that was her flaw. She never hesitated and although reluctance could be a weakness, as could be impulsiveness. If this was the girl coming into the Arena with him, Kit wanted to study everything he could about her. Her movements, her habits, her strategies. Anything that could make killing her as effortless as possible.

But he wondered why the girl on the ground wasn't doing anything? She was mildly attractive, with a tanned complexion and flowing, brown hair. But now covering her skin is a string of purplish bruises that line her arms and possibly her chest. Although Kit greatly doubted that she would be chosen to go into the Game with him, he never failed to make note of her.

The girl on the ground barely tried to defend herself or the blocks, she's letting the larger girl beat the crap out of her. It makes no sense. What kind of criminal allows someone to harm them without resistance?

This scene reminded Kit of the night he came home to Omar and a Peacekeeper about to force Bex to leave his house. Omar argued that Rebekah had to come home, that she was a whore and having a child with Kit made it even worse. A gun was held to Bex's head and the Peacekeeper's gun was aimed at the Cordett family.

Rebekah, being the selfless and noble woman she was, agreed to leave with Omar for the safety of Kit's family. When Kit came home though, that was where it all went to Hell. The night ended with a lot of blood and seven fingers chopped off. In the end, Omar was on the ground at the mercy of Kit. But Kit doesn't plan to be merciful, in fact, he was going to make Omar regret he was ever born. That's when the Peacekeepers came and he was convicted.

Snapped out of his stupor, he stepped forward, about to interfere when a thought dawned on him. He doesn't even know this girl. If he helped her, he could be dragged into this whole mess and blamed for assaulting both women. Sorry, but Kit would rather avoid another sentence than helping some pathetic, blubbering girl from a bully.

So, he retreated until the Peacekeepers separated the two girls and the Reaping ceremony began.

The Mayor stepped forward, the six Victors that District Two possessed sighed deeply, familiar with this speech as was the entire District.

"Ladies and gentlemen…" The Mayor continued to speak about the Dark Days, then the Second Revolution of the Mockingjay. "Katniss Everdeen was a foolish girl who believed she could bring down the Capitol with a handful of berries. She was executed for her treasonous crimes and the Rebellion came crashing down. Now, the Capitol, who has graced us so mercifully has allowed us to continue and serve them.

We are now living in harmony, but alas, peace has a price. Each year, two people will be chosen into the Hunger Games as tributes where they will fight to the death until one remains. However, after the Revolution of the Mockingjay, the Games have been bloodier than ever and we all deserve that. It's a small price to pay for freedom. Allow me to welcome our Escort, Pansy Plymont, to Reap the tributes of the One Hundredth Hunger Games."

Pansy stepped forward, a wild and manic grin plastered to her plastic face. After the short and traditional speech, she stepped towards the girl's bowl and plucked out the first slip that touched her fingers.

"Paget Brenner!"

Five and a half minutes later, the screaming girl who was once on the ground was dragged to the stage. Kit inwardly groaned, she'll barely make it past the Bloodbath.

"And now, for the men," Pansy declared, stepping over to the male's bowl and reaching her hand into the bowl. She dug around for a while before touching the bottom-most slip. She yanked it out and in her shrill voice, she announced, "the male tribute for this year's Hunger Games is… Kit Cordett!"

A realization snapped inside of me. I'd just been Reaped. Me. Reaped. I'm going to the Hunger Games.

You know the phrase 'seeing your life flash before your eyes'? Well, Kit's entire recollection of his life passed his mind. He remembered the smiling face of his mother as she birthed him, the grinning face of his father as he toss him Kit's first knife, the way Torell threw him into the air like a bird, the whimpering cries of Shea, Rebekah's cocoa brown eyes as she stared lovingly into Kit's eyes, Omar's blood mingling with his own on the carpet. A newfound rush of adrenaline coursed through Kit's blood.

He stiffened, his elongated height of over six feet moving forward like a moose in the wilderness. In an instant, he shielded himself with a stone wall. Kit is decently sized and muscled, enough to initiate an aura of fear around him. He clenched his fists and walked forward, assuring himself that no one would be able to look beyond his mask into his true intentions.

"Hello Kit," Pansy said, "you look amazing. Would you like to say something about herself?" The girl, Paget, was still weeping so Pansy had to put in additional effort to project her voice.

Kit stares at her, a blank look on his face before he turned to face the audience, turned to face District Two. He remained silent, a stoic figure.

"Okay everybody. Here are your tributes for District Two!"

There was no cheers or shouts to follow. No hand signals to show their respect. Only the ringing silence, the perpetual reticence that swallowed every void and wary, frozen eyes.

Maybe they meant it as an insult, that no one would care if these tributes died, but Kit didn't percept it that way.

Silence was respect, it was honor, it was consideration. In Kit's mind, the stillness was the best departing gift the District could bestow upon him.

 **Xxx**

 **Hey there! I hoped you all like District Two's tributes. Also, I'd like to announce that I'll be writing from Third Person from now on. I've tried First, but it's honestly uncomfortable for me. Sorry.**


	6. Visiting Hour: Affection is the Worst

**Warning: Might be some lesbian puns. If you're offended, get out. They're harmless and petty.**

 **xxx**

 _Tallis Windsor, District Three, Visiting Hour:_

To be frank, Tallis is more than slightly perturbed by how fast time seemed to be sailing.

The little, ornate room was matted with dust, sifting little particles of bacteria through the sun-filled windows. The last time a person had stepped into this room was less than a year ago.

Last year's District Three tributes were undoubtedly ashaming. The boy was literally sobbing everywhere he went and the girl vomited over herself during the Interviews. It was no surprise both of them were cut down at the Bloodbath.

The way their organs seemed to spill out of their chests greatly troubled Tallis, but in re-analysis, it was not much different than the Revolution of Katniss Everdeen.

Tallis still remembers those days, where bodies filled the streets of District Three and blood spilled down the concrete like a crimson river. It was something out of a nightmare, one that would haunt Tallis for the rest of his life.

Then, there was Zara Denvir and Enoch Tera. Both were highly gifted individuals, who were skilled exceptionally in the art of hacking and decoding. Alas, they taught Tallis everything they knew. Well, not everything.

The triumvirate were a master society consisted of Enoch, Zara and Tallis. They worked right under Tallis' parents' noses, trying to decrypt every secret the Capitol held true.

Almost every computer was hacked into in Tallis' mother's office. She was a Loyalist, a devoted one at that and she never expected her own spawn to manipulate her for the good of the Revolution.

After a year of slyly creeping beneath the radar, a mistake occurred. All good things come to an end, they say. It's unfortunately true. All things you enjoy are bound to be destroyed. The universe is a bitch, they say.

As the trio began to crack across a firewall in one of the Loyalist bases in Three, a federal Peacekeeping force stormed their way into the vicinity.

They tore the place apart, pillaging and plundering without remorse. They burned every computer, destroying every Capitol database that the Loyalists had access to in District Three.

Tallis, Enoch and Zara hid and almost got away with their infringement of law. But then, there were the dogs. They were obviously mutated, much larger than the average bloodhound should look.

They sniffed and growled, their eyes seemed to glint with technology. And then, the bloodhounds found them.

The mainframe they were hiding beneath was ripped apart, the hounds catching onto their scent. The Peacekeepers were there in a second, their guns blazing and aimed at all three of the trio's heads.

"Run," Enoch whispered, a hardened look etched onto his face. Zara and Tallis barely moved a muscle, perplexed by what their friend had said. "Run!" He shouted, this time more significant and clear.

Hoping to fulfill his last wish, they burst from their crouched positions and sprinted. A cacophany of bullets rang through the air, like a crisp and clean wind in the autumn. Shots whizzed pass Zara and Tallis' ears, almost kissing their heads in a clean pierce.

Enoch's screams bellowed, followed by several crashes and the frying of the main-computer. Tallis was surprised he lasted this long, albeit even disappointed. He had wished his friend had gotten a nice death, a quick and clean demise.

But alas, wishes are nonexistent. Thus, Enoch was captured and tortured, much to Tallis' and Zara's unknowing. He betrayed every secret, every inch of knowledge they managed to milk out of the Rebel websites. And then, they killed Enoch and he died the painful, slow death of blood loss.

After the incident, both Zara and Tallis managed to escape into freedom. For the next two years, Zara would be living in Tallis' basement in his manor. She swore that she would retire from rebellious business, hoping to keep Tallis safe.

Tallis did not retire. If anything, he did anything but. He left the house several times during the night, meeting with renowned Rebels before taking charge of their plans and leading the missions himself, even after the war.

No one knew, not even Zara. Until one night she caught him sneaking back into the house and everything was pieced together. She may be traumatized, but she was not stupid.

She cursed him, hoping to guilt him back into submission. But it was unlike Tallis to listen to anyone or look to please anyone.

He ignored her, despite his undying love for the girl, and continued his duties. No one could tell him what to do. He was to do what he wanted, or he'd die for it.

In the end, he was caught in middle of bypassing security grounds and was captured. Considering Tallis' youth, it was decreed that he would be sent to the District Prison until he reached the age of nineteen, which was the official age for an adult in Panem.

Zara left the house during this time, after regretfully introducing herself to Tallis' parents as his close friend. Calix and Nira Windsor were pleasantly surprised, much to Zara gratification.

Now, the Quarter Quell rolled around and the opportunity was amidst. And so, Tallis took it with the chiming words of _I Volunteer_.

He had made himself look as formidable as possible during the Reaping, but even he couldn't stop the anxious twitching of his eye or the shaking of his limbs. He was going into a deathmatch after all. Shortly after, his bold performance was outshone when Electra Edison stepped up onto stage with a mad grin and shouted into the air that she was going to bathe in the blood of her peers.

And so, here he was, thoughtfully pacing the marble floorboards of the Justice Building when Zara bursts into the room. Her face was puffy from the tears, most likely and her hair was in clumps. Almost like she'd torn them out in patches.

Tallis was about to make a witty comment about her appearance when she interrupted him.

"Say one thing about how I look and I swear I will chop off your balls and sell them in the Black Market," she muttered, unashamedly furious. "I think the wary looks from the Peacekeepers were sufficient enough."

There was the Zara that Tallis knew and loved.

"I was not going to say anything of the such," Tallis responded with a weak smile, "I was just going to say how openly aggressive you are today as opposed to the last two years."

"Well, my best friend did just Volunteer himself into a fight to the death, of course I'd be angry!"

Tallis replied with a mere nod, a grim shadow casted across his face.

"It was this or death, Zara. I'd be going to the grave anyway."

"No, we could've bailed you out, Tallis. You would've just had to behave yourself. Me and your parents, we're still trying to get you out, we've _been_ trying. You just have to behave."

"I sincerely apologize, but won't sink to the satisfaction of pleasing those grimy Peacekeepers. They can kiss my ass."

Zara seems to have surrendered, seating herself on the plush, velvet chair beside the couch. Her face was so beautiful, thought Tallis, if only he'd have the courage to tell her.

"It's going to be hard, Tallis. You know that. This isn't those Games where children violently hack at eachother, desperate to survive. This is a Quarter Quell and everyone whose going in has a history of being the worst in their District. They will easily rip you apart."

"I am aware. But I have something they don't."

"And what is that?"

Tallis looked up after staring at his shoes, a shimmering spark in his eyes. "Purpose."

The Peacekeepers barged into the room, wrestling a thrashing Zara out of the room before she could respond. A stunned look was plastered to her expression, confusion settling in and then, all was quiet.

Until Tallis' parents stumbled in. Dried streaks of tears fell down their cheeks and their lips were quivered with pretense.

"Oh, my baby," his mother, Nira, managed to choke out between half-assed sobs. She sounds not unlike a dying cow.

"Tallis, why would you do this to us? Don't you know how much we love you?" His father tried to move closer, even attempted to rest a hand on Tallis' knee.

Tallis jerked backwards, swatting his father's hand away like a naughty child. He pursed his lips, hoping to avoid having to speak.

"Honestly," his mom began, her face lined with endless seams and wrinkles, "I don't understand why you hate us so much? We gave you life, plenty of food, a nice house and we even treat you right. How can you not appreciate us?"

Tallis was growing with a boiling rage, and he was reddening by the second. If his parents took the time to get to know him, they know his rampages are often dangerous.

He stood, his face a growing flush. "Listen here. Do you think I'm going to bow down to you? After you left me alone, to wallow in my self-pity for a week while you two embarked on a business trip? Is that how you raise a child? Maybe, just maybe, if you took one damn second to treat your child right, maybe we wouldn't be here. Has it ever crossed your mind that I wanted to stay in Prison? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I Volunteered to get away from you?"

Nira and Calix were stunned by their son's outburst. It was outright unbelievable. Tallis barely talked, he rarely even acknowledged them in the manor, much less shout.

Both were stupefied to the point where they couldn't even process what happened. Calix opened his mouth, then shut it again.

After hearing the yelling, the Peacekeepers outside the door barged in. Their guns were raised, loaded with silver bullets.

They probably expected a fight to have broken out, something dangerous only a criminal would do.

Instead, they found two frozen parents and a steaming tribute. Calix and Nira were dragged out, but not before they could shoot their son a look of prolonging, and most painfully: regret.

Tallis had to admit, he felt guilty after seeing his father's saddened face. Out of the two, Tallis had bonded with his dad the most. They'd spent hours inside the house, playing with whatever they could get their hands on. After all, most caretakers were fired after Tallis repeatedly disliked them all.

It's been ten minutes, although it feels like a lifetime just waiting. Maybe his parents were the last of his Visitors and he has the rest to think, to strategize.

But, unfortunately, the door creaked open and a hooded figure stomped in. In all honesty, Tallis was disturbed by this strange presence.

The man remained standing and with a swift motion, removed his leather hood. His face was grotesque, veins traveled down his neck and scars dominated his face. His features were twisted and his skin was charred, as if he was burned.

Tallis slid back on the couch, a frightful feeling blossoming in the pit of his stomach. He held his hands in front of him, as if to prepare to block a punch. Instead, the man just grunted.

"Hello Windsor," the man croaked. However, something besides his grisly appearance froze Tallis' blood. This man sounded exactly like Enoch.

They both had the same raspy, tired voice. The voice that sounded like it had been murdered by one too many cigarettes and a nasty swelling of the pharynx. Then, as the pieces slid together, something clicked inside Tallis' mind.

"If you were wondering, I'm Enoch's eldest brother," he said, with a blank stare. It was like he had just read Tallis' mind and the boy was sent into a state of perplexity once again.

Today was a very, very odd day for Tallis.

"And it's your fault. It's your fault he's dead. And you're going to pay for it."

I couldn't respond. My mouth felt like it had been glued shut. Maybe it was glued shut, by Enoch's ghost. I'd understand.

"When you're in that Arena," he continued, "I am going to make sure your family goes through Hell. And not just your parents, that girl too. I see the looks you give her, you're hopelessly in love with that whore. Well, after I have fun with her, I'm going to kill her. And everyone you've ever loved will be dead, just as you did Enoch."

I'm left sitting there, with my jaw gaping as the man dropped his cloak and exited without another word.

A mix of emotions flooded through me, an unwelcoming sensation. At first, it was fear. Then, it was anger and then sadness. After, it was remembrance, but most significantly: determination.

Zara, Calix and Nira. As much as Tallis despised them, he's not going to let some low-life murder the only family he has left. That's his job.

Kidding. Not really.

A spike of rage-induced tenacity coursed through Tallis' veins and a cold finger drew up his spine. In all honesty, he may be heartless, but he knows this isn't what Enoch would've wanted.

Therefore, it must be fate that he makes it back from the Hell he just crawled himself into.

 _Electra Edison, District Three, Visiting Hour:_

This room is absolutely, positively shitty.

The musty scent of the walls, the peeling wallpaper and dust collection on the side table. Electra thought that the Capitol could've at least taken the time to refurnish the Justice Building. But as always, their utter incompetence and nonexistent consciences just refuses to help the tributes in any way.

Electra paced the room, her breathing catching at her throat. She wouldn't classify herself as a generally anxious person, but still, the thought of entering the Hunger Games with twenty-three other teenagers is enough to set a person on edge.

"Miss Edison," a voice calls from outside, presumably a Peacekeeper, "a visitor is here to see you. Please unlock the door."

Oh, right. Electra barricaded the doors. Things like that often tend to escape her memories.

"Well, tell them to fuck off," she responded, her shrill voice exclaims. The door begins to shake, sending flakes of dust tumbling off the shelves. "Hey, be careful. Do you know how much that bookcase costs?"

In an instant, the door imploded and practically a troop of Peacekeepers marched in, their guns leveled at her head. Electra smiled at them, barely moving a muscle. Her teeth were bared like a rabid dog's, her eyes glinting like a dewy-eyed owl and the side of her lip twitching like a snake. She looked slightly insane. Cross that. She looked extremely manic.

"You won't shoot me," she claimed, even as a Peacekeeper pressed the chilling barrel of a gun against her forehead. "The Capitol whores will tear you apart faster than you can say 'dickwad.' What can I say? Those sons of b8tches love themselves a crazy token."

It takes a few moments of hesitation before the Peacekeeper finally pulled away, leaving a smirking Electra standing in the midst of anarchy as the guards slowly pile out after one another.

In their place, a young girl stepped into the room. She wasn't that elderly, her face void of wrinkles and seams. Her hair was a brilliant chestnut that fell down her back like waves of amber. Her face seemed angelic, even from afar. It was radiating with life, a face polished with undefined beauty. Or maybe that was just Electra's lesbian tendencies showing.

Her nose was upturned and her eyes looked down on Electra in disgust. She almost seemed to reprehend Electra, shooting glares at her.

"Do I know you?" Electra asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. The woman seemed familiar, her face amongst the many that have fallen at Electra's knife.

"You should. My name is Wiress and you killed my daughter," she replied, her voice sick with venom. Wiress wanted to stab this girl in her heart, watch as she died and suffered just as she'd killed her daughter, Tyra. "You probably don't even remember her, you dumb freak!"

"Honestly, I'd expect a little more of an extensive vocabulary from a Three."

"Shut up," Wiress hissed, narrowing her eyes until they were slits. "I don't have to prove anything to you."

Electra smiled: a wide, toothy grin that was so crescented that the vertexes of her lips curved up into her cheekbones. It was enough to send the curtains quivering and the wind trembling.

She didn't remember this woman's daughter. She recollected memories of other crimes though, such as her own brother or the neighborhood bully.

Three years ago, her brother was the idiot he always had to be. He'd been pestering her about his new computer book for weeks, shoving it down her throat as if she was too puny to receive such a stupendous gift. He would pound on her doors, sending her schoolbooks tumbling from the shelves, for her to listen to him read. It didn't make sense to Electra. Her family was rich enough to own a condo, but they weren't rich enough to abort her brother, Magneto.

So, she took the burden upon her own shoulders and she stabbed him twice in the stomach. The mud in her shoes was the last straw, she wasn't going to let someone tease her to the point where she didn't want to leave her room.

After that first murder, all the others came naturally. The stabs sunk deeper, the strangling ended faster and the poisoning was swifter. It was pure bliss, the life without dumbasses ruining her fun. And for a while, she was never even suspected. Until one night, she had made camp in the back alley of her local street, waiting for someone to throw away their trash. No one did.

It was dark, stinky and to add to the stress, it was raining and her clothes were drenched. Then, as if her prayers had been answered, some hapless boy wandered into the back street, digging in trash bins. Her knife was warm in her hand, begging to be put into somebody's heart. She decided to satisfy her dagger's desires.

All it took was one shove and a hasty jab before the boy was bleeding out. It took another second for a drunk to come stumbling out of his shop before encountering the scene. Electra didn't move, she didn't expect some half-wit to be in his right mind to call the cops. He did call the police.

Regardless of her ten minute head-start, the Peacekeepers came chasing after her with no time to waste. Unfortunately for her, Electra's wet clothes weighed down on her like a ton of bricks. It took every effort to lift her foot, another to push her along the sidewalk. By midnight, she was in cuffs and put on trial.

Still, she smiled. A triumphant, knowing smile. That boy was her thirteenth murder, her thirteenth sin and it felt so, so marvelous. Oh, that number was so humorous, for some odd reason, everyone seemed afraid of it.

"Are you even listening to me, you dunce," the lady shouted, her voice rising as did her temper. Electra had had enough, she was dwelling on her memories for too long.

She advanced, a predator's smirk on her face as she stalked forward. Her eyes were glinting with mischief and she was practically drooling at this opportunity. Wiress' disposition was decreased, her face now slack with a growing terror.

Electra now forced Wiress against the wall, her fists clenched at her side. It was a habit, but logically, it was a common instinct of self-defense in case things switched to the favor of her rival.

With a jubilant swipe, the flower vase had been snatched off the table next to Electra just before she slammed it back onto the surface. The vase shattered into a thousand pieces, a worthy collection. Electra selected a sleek, elongated shard that she held like a knife.

"Oh, please, don't," Wiress pleaded, her eyes lighting up in fear.

"You made a mistake coming here," Electra justified, before she drew an icy finger across Wiress' throat.

A scarlet that matched Wiress' vibrant crimson lipstick dripped down her throat in a curtain of blood, leaving Wiress to drown on her own gore. Suddenly, Electra's eyes lit up in glee as the doors were flung open, the Peacekeepers a second too late.

Electra was pulled from her Visiting Room early, her session cut half an hour early. When the reporter held a microphone to her mouth and pestered her about her strategy, she didn't hesitate before ushering a false threat and flinging his wireless recorder across the District.

 **xxx**

 **:D**


	7. Train: For Blood, We Thirst

**Hello all again. I must give a shoutout to chocolate chip homicide (Amie) for beta-ing for me. I really appreciate her help and the quality of the chapters will be improving significantly. Also, for those wondering, this won't give her tribute(s) an advantage over yours, so don't fret. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!**

 **xxx**

 _Cari Williams, District Four, Train:_

After the fluster of reports finally diminished and our Escort, Aurelia, ushered us onto the train, Cari breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's all for now," Aurelia shouted over the screams of the editors and reporters, "you'll see more of Cari and Hudson in the Capitol!"

She stood stiff, her eyes glued to the various plumes of these flamboyant Capitol inhabitants. There was almost everything a girl could dream of: from diamonds, to rubies to even candy floss made into a wig. In a way, it both made Cari jubilant and anxious.

Jubilant because soon, she'd be going to this city. The Capitol. The place where all her dreams have come to life. The sky-reaching buildings, the clouds composed of heavenly colors and enough food to feed half the Districts for a lifetime. 

Anxious because at the Capitol, the heart of the nation, is the home of the people condemning her to death. As much as she'd wish, she's aware she has absolutely no chance of getting out of that Arena. Each year, every child dies in the Hunger Games, since the person that leaves the Arena is not the same person that entered. They'll be a monster, a murderer, a Victor.

As enticing as escaping the Arena sounds, Cari knows she doesn't have the will to actually murder someone.

"Okay, dears," Aurelia speaks, snapping Cari from her thoughts, "so, now that we're all lone and private, shall we talk public personas?"

"We shall," Hudson intercedes me, as Cari was about to respond. "It seems like an appropriate subject to discuss." In all honesty, Cari is a little frightened of the heavily muscled, curly-haired, smiling boy. His bronze complexion was a sight, much like the other boys in the District. _But Hudson was different_ , Cari observed, _it was his constant, toothy smile that told her something was off._

"Alright-y," Aurelia continues, taking a seat on the velvet cushions. Both of the tributes followed her lead, awing in fascination at the sudden plump. It was much different than the chairs back at home, or most likely any other District. This chair felt like it was crafted from only the best merchants and artisans. "So, as you two were in your rooms, I was contemplating the possibility of your appearances. For Hudson, I was thinking a charismatic, but deadly tribute. He's laid-back and relaxed, but could decapitate you without blinking an eye. For Cari, well, I was wondering if the sweet, innocent, plainly kind look would be good for you? Not only would it gain you some sympathetic sponsors, but it would match your personality. You won't even have to act!"

Cari's eyes narrowed and her eyebrows furrowed in speculation. If she did decide to show this side to the public, would that mean she would portrayed as weak? In her original tactics, she hoped to join the Careers. Despite her morals, she believed that the Career Pack would enact all the murders and when the tension brewed, she would escape as quickly as she could. It seemed like a safe-proof plan. But if she agreed to take on this dissimilation, it would make joining the Careers that much more difficult.

Hudson didn't seemed to worry, just merely yawning. He rested his foot on the table, much to the audible and sudden gasps of Aurelia. Her jaws dropped into a perfect O. She must've wondered how this once polite boy turned into such a savage.

In the District, Hudson was known as a semi-bastard. He had joined the Academy purely for the chance at winning the Games, the chance to repay his parents' debts. But when that plan went haywire, he resorted to money laundering and robbery. He was the rumors of the District, it was certain that at least half the District knew something about him.

Thinking about the District, Cari remembered the map of District Four like the back of her hand. The criss-crossing stone roads, the coasts that line the Southwest population of District Four and the central town where most of the citizens live. Cari was from that town, called the Inland Isle, and she's been in love with it ever since. She'd lived a decent life, where a roof was provided and dinner was on the table almost every night.

Her parents had owned the apothecary which doubled as a spice store in the local market. The seasoning were used by every renowned chef there was, thus, Cari had lived a life of luxury for most of her life. Additionally, Cari had also learned a plethora of knowledge about spices after her mother. She knew how nutmeg in large doses could result in rapid heart rates and extreme consumption of turmeric could result in fevers and even if ingested for long enough, gallstones.

When she turned the age of 14, she'd already married her faithful and only husband. The man was charming, charismatic and loving. He knew the perfect way to soothe Cari, the things she valued most and was dedicated to her so lovingly through both his heart and soul. A year later, their first daughter was born. When her parents grew aware of her pregnancy, this anomaly in the Williams family, they deemed her a prostitute and disowned her. They banished her from ever seeing them again, and so, she was forced to move into their own seaside shack with her husband.

Cari always believed that her husband's death was due to karma. She'd committed many sins in her life: leaving the house, placing shame on her family's name, having a young pregnancy. So, when the Peacekeepers knocked on her door to tell her that her husband's boat was found upturned on the shore and he was missing, she blamed it on herself. For years, she was in mourning. She was convinced that everything that happened to her was a punishment by the gods and it was destiny that she would suffer.

To exemplify her concept, her firstborn daughter, Penelope, shouted vile things at a Peacekeeper and actually assaulted him with some knife she found. Cari was dumbfounded by her act of treason. She never would've expected her daughter of all people to be the person chained to the pole and whipped a dozen times.

A day later, the newly minted Peacekeeper base went up in flames and it was no coincidence. The Peacekeepers, or what was left of them, stormed the Williams household and killed the young girl before taking Cari prisoner. She didn't even attempt to deny her crime. What goes around, comes around, after all. And to top it all off, here Cari was, sitting on a chair heading for the Capitol, heading for the Hunger Games.

"Whatever, dude," Hudson said, closing his eyelids for a couple of seconds before our Mentors walked in. Aurelia heaved a great sigh and stood from her chair, murmuring with two of District Four's four Victors before heading to her room.

Hudson's eyelids popped open shortly after Aurelia left and he propped himself back onto the chair, his back a stiffened pose. Cari's nose scrunched at his sudden shift in behavior. She believed that he was a fraud, a wannabe Career that just couldn't get to the top without some help.

Cari, on the other hand, was forced into this dilemma. After a couple minutes, she's decided that she'll go with the "friend for all" act. It might have it's downsides, but the surplus of sponsors she'll most likely receive will definitely help her through the Arena.

"So, hello mates," District Four's second Victors spoke, his voice as smooth as the crust of a sea-shell. Vasco won his Games with pure integrity. He fought through everything that the Gamemakers threw his way and in addition, fought off all the other tributes. He was the man idolized by every single child in Four. "Looks like we have a mighty fine batch of fighters this year."

Cari nods, a small smile blossoming on her face. A bright red shade started to flush into her cheeks, giving her the appearance of a young child. Hudson, meanwhile, tilted his head in confusion and once again, nodded.

"Oh, Vasco," our most recent Victor, Clara, speaks, her tone stern and stoic, "you're frightening the children."

"We're not children," Cari says, perching up from her chair. It was the first thing she's said since she's gotten on the train. "We're fighters. Like what Vasco said."

"Listen here, kid. Vasco says that to every tribute that comes prancing into this damn train and only two of them have come out. For all we know, you'll both be shipped back to Four in a coffin."

Regardless of Cari's lack of determination to win the Games, she was still offended this woman's tone. She wanted to shout right in Clara's face that she was wrong. That she'll see just exactly what Hudson and Cari were capable of.

"What gives you the right to speak to us like we're a couple of fish jumping the bait?"

"Oh, I don't know," Clara groans, her voice evidently frustrated and coated with sarcasm. "Maybe it's the fact that you two are a couple o' fish jumping the bait!"

Cari was astounded by the sudden volume, instinctively backing away. She softly rapped the table, pleading for Hudson's aid in the argument. _Surely he'd come up with something,_ she hoped.

"Don't look at me," he said, instead. "I'm not one to intervene cat fights."

Cari was about to slap him right then and there, and then she'd slap Clara. Currently, the only people she doesn't want to bruise is Vasco and Aurelia, but they are sure damn close.

Cari, clearly annoyed, threw her hands up in the air and surrendered. She retreated to a corner, obviously flustered by the mental tussle she'd just participated with a Victor. Maybe she gave her insanity too little recognition.

Vasco eyed the room, his fingers sliding through his slick hair. It was gelled to the the tip, wet with mousse. His eyes landed on Hudson, of which was filled with contempt, then Clara, which was purely of pity and then Cari, which she would've sworn his eyes lingered for longer than both the other two. This time, his eyes were composed of more than a single emotion. It was respect. Reverence for her geniality. It was hope, for the sake that maybe this strong-willed girl could pull herself out of the Arena. But most of all, it was disappointment. Discontent that this spirited and amiable young lady couldn't put up more of a fight.

"First of all," Clara continued, her tone astringent, "tactics. As much as we push you, we both want you to get out of that hellhole they call an Arena. But you can only do that if you have a plan. For starters, if you didn't already know, District Four has always been possible members of the Career Pack. This was a thing even before the Second Rebellion. However, Districts One and Two are more wary of us. Especially after last year's Games, when Dillon, our District Four male, poisoned all of his allies. So, watch out. I know for a fact that One and Two's Victors have been told specifically to watch out for you both."

Cari internally sighed. Another obstacle in her way of joining the Career Pack. It was as if the more she talked, the more the universe found ways to screw her over.

"Um…" She began, hoping to get the conversation started. "I was thinking about joining the Careers. I want to hang back, let them do the dirty work and leave when the alliance starts to get shaky."

Clara seemed to ponder for a moment, a finger tapping against her chin when Vasco perked upwards.

"I like your thinking, Cari," he said. "But there are many flaws to your strategy. Number one: the Careers aren't just going to let you relax while they do all the killing. As dumb as they seem, they're much more than a pretty face. Well, most of the time.

They won't let you keep your hands clean. If you're to join the Pack, you'll be required to prove yourself. Whether that's during the Bloodbath or when they manage to catch cannon fodder, there's no running from fate."

Cari nodded, the realization setting in. She was _really_ going into the Hunger Games. She was going to have to kill somebody, she's going to have to take someone's life away. Cari isn't sure if she's ready to take on such a difficult commitment for victory. She wonders if it's worth the strain on her mind to keep perfecting her plan even if she knows she won't go to every length to get out of the Arena.

"Also, it's harder than you think when you decide to leave the Career Pack," Clara adds. "You'll have to leave when no one's watching because if they do, it's most likely that they'll put you down for attempting to quit. They'll label you as a coward, and we all know what Careers do to cowards."

The thought alone sends chills down all of their spines, even Hudson's. A few years back, some girl from Two thought that the female from Four was trying to poison the Careers. Of course, she was attempting to, but she'd never admit it. So, the girl from Two decided to torture her after calling her a coward each time she made a cut. In the end, the girl from Four managed to cut herself from her ropes with a loose branch and stab the Two girl in the heart. That girl from Four was sitting in front of Cari now and goes by the name of Clara Newport.

Finally, the attention was diverted to Hudson. Vasco was the first to suggest we make plans for him as well, not just for me.

"So, Hudson," our male Mentor said. "Do you have any ideas in mind you want to share?"

"No, not really," Hudson responded, a blank glare in his eyes. He sat slack in his chair, staring at the three of us. "I'll do whatever is best when the time comes."

"But Hudson. Preparation is vital to your survival in the Arena. It may seem effortless now, but it takes much more difficulty to come up with a plan during the Bloodbath than it is now."

Hudson merely shrugged, biting into a golden apple he found out of a fruit basket. It seemed like he didn't care at all. Like he wouldn't even mind being stabbed to death.

It was obvious that Vasco was starting to grow irritated. His fists were clenched at his side and you could practically see his hair graying. He wasn't to blame. Hudson appeared to be an obstinate, ductile character. He seemed to let the waves carry him, rather than conquering the tides.

"Well, if you don't care about what your plan is, then you might as well impale yourself," Clara said, bluntly stating her opinion.

Hudson raised a questioning eyebrow, his features grew deprived of slack.

"How about I impale you?"

In an instant, Clara was up against the wall, a butter knife pressed against her throat. Vasco went flying from his seat, trying to pry Hudson from the wall, but he had already released the female Victor.

Hudson's eyes turned to slits, sneering at the Mentors.

"You know," he growled, "this is the exact rationale for my impiety for ignorant adult like you who believe they're so much more dominant than me purely for the reason that they've lived longer. Complete and utter fatuity, if you ask me."

With a low grunt, he stomped to his room, a frown glued to his face.

"Welp," Cari said, bewilderment of what just occurred evident on her face, "that was definitely something."

 _Hudson Arroya, District Four, Train:_

The lamp crashed against the window of Hudson's room, bouncing off harmlessly. Neither the porcelain pottery or the glass window shatter. They've been coated with super-durable sheets that were implemented to ensure the tributes' safety.

 _Complete dimwits, those incompetent Mentors,_ Hudson thought as he paced the room. He wanted to tore this place to shreds, but knows he'd unable to. He also takes pride in his sanity, thank you very much.

"Hudson?" A sudden series of knock almost blow down the door. "It's Clara. Time for the Reaping Recaps, buddy. I understand if you don't want to leave, but this is crucial to get to observe your fellow tributes, your possible allies or enemies."

That caught his attention. If he knew all he could about the other tributes, then he wouldn't have as tough a time in the Arena. Having known recollections of them could make killing them easier, quicker. There wouldn't need to be time wasted getting to know your rivals. Well, you know what they say, keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.

After a few moments of dwelling in his thoughts, he finally unlocked the door and flung it open. He was expecting to find an ill-faced Clara, her face sour and bitter as she stared at him. Instead, he found nothing. There was no one outside his door, like she'd just vanished. He assumed she's most likely already headed for the viewing compartment. Shrugging, he followed the convoying signs that pointed to the correct carriage.

The Districts flew by the window as he passed, dark malachite that shrouded the grassy hills and dark clouds that threatened to rain. Thousands of acres of forest flew by, the branches of nearby trees whacking against the window. He could only assume the train was passing by District Seven. _Thump, thump, thump._ Hudson just wanted to stand and admire the scenery, the utter glamor and majesty of it all.

In an instant, he was thrown into the pit of his own memories and deepest desires. The sweet, sifting aroma of the salty sand wafted by his nose, as if to tempt him. It was almost as if he was back in Four, but he knew that wasn't true. Back in Four, he lived on an outer isle. Most of the lesser, more financially-incapable families lived out here. Despite the roaring nature of oceanlife, Hudson had always wanted to just lived on an oceanside villa by himself. He'd wake up to the salient welcome of the waves. He'd listen to the humming lull of crystalline, blue-green waves that splintered on the sand-dug boulders, drawing back into the ocean only to do it all over again.

A stinging desire tugged at the back of his mind, his inwardly wishes tearing him apart. But alas, there was no turning back now. After you Volunteer, there was no take-backsies. Reluctance is designed for children, an altered emotion. But in the Hunger Games, the children don't survive very long.

Hudson hadn't known many children in his childhood. He had no friends, nor did he have siblings. His father was a former Peacekeeper who quit the force to take care of his only son, Hudson. This task dominated most of the older man's life and by age seven, Hudson's dad's hairline must've receded at least four inches. After Hudson, his parents decided that another child was too much to handle. To add to Hudson's alienation, his parents enlisted him into the Academy. They had been in too much debt, they were due for a federal encounter anytime soon. In their stress, they continued to urge Hudson to fight, to train, to Win. After this period of self-deprecation, Hudson began to live in the Academy which also doubled as a school. He lived with the trainers, practically made a home there.

Hudson felt at home in the Academy. He bonded with the trainers, two young women especially, and grew up a functional life. Until his time at the Academy drew to a close and he was almost over Reaping age. Hudson had become completely dedicated to training for the Games, putting his heart and soul into everything he did. Every swing of his sword came from his spirit, every toss of his knife pulling at his heart, every lunge with his spear tugged at his mind. Therefore, when that one trainee continuously beat him at every evaluation, the trainers began to talk pitifully about how Hudson Arroya would not be competing in the Games this year.

And as a result, Hudson's confidence was greatly damaged and he lived in an era of distress. His hair began to visibly gray, his tension levels were obviously rising.

As a replacement for training, Hudson began to money launder. He would act as a handicap child, pleading for help. He would wrap a bandage around his leg and wince every time his foot shook. Several times, passerbyes would give him a couple dollars or so. All in all, it began to add up and all was going well. Until one day, one of his most trustworthy and loyal donators saw him stand up and walk after he had collected his day's worth of money. The Peacekeepers had come for Hudson the next day and immediately, Hudson knew who had ratted him out.

A couple months after this incident, Hudson coincidentally ran into that supposed loyal donator. This time, he wasn't so forgiven. After a couple of deep gashes and stolen dollars, Hudson decided he would leave the man to bleed out and as he was leaving the scene, ran directly into the waiting arms of the Peacekeepers. Easily, the connection between the blood on Hudson's shirt and the ransacked man behind him was made without much effort.

Little would've Hudson thought that three years later, he would end up relieved of his sentence, but in place, a much more devastating and lethal risk stood in place: the Hunger Games.

"Are you coming or what?"

"Oh," Hudson responded, a bit too quickly. Clara's head was peeking out the door, and she was frantically waving Hudson inside.

"Come in," she said, "the Recaps are about to start."

Hudson stepped into the room and was welcomed by a whoosh of cold air. The brisk wind was flooding from out of the vents, draping the room in a frosty apron. Hudson couldn't help but shudder as he entered, folding his arms across his chest.

"Could we turn down the air conditioner?" He asked, his voice frigid.

"Yeah, of course," Vasco said, in his thick sailor accent. He moved to spin the knob, increasing the temperature in the room.

Both Vasco and Clara wore different articles of clothing, dark tops with think slacks. Clara's hair was bundled into a loose bun and Vasco's dark brown hair was swept to the side, his handsomeness slowly fading as he aged. Aurelia was also sitting on a bar stool, another frilly and silly outfit chosen. A dozen cascading waterfalls fell from her short dress, speckles of water dripping onto the floor. A literal river was flowing in tubes across her chest and it was mortifyingly disgusting. Like… really gross.

The last person Hudson's eyes laid on was Cari, who was now adequately dressed in a simple, gray t-shirt. A thin black cardigan was sprawled over her shoulders; her attire made it look like she was dressed for a funeral.

His perception of her drab wardrobe was somewhat accurate. Hudson was walking into the entombment of twenty three other children.

Cari's eyebrows scrunched in confusion as she saw his eyes land on her. He shrugged, swiftly walking to the sofa directly opposite of her to avoid the awkward tension.

Suddenly, the holographic television screen sparked to life, the shrill voice of Arcadia Hillmont, the Master of Ceremonies and Caesar Templesmith's successor, announces the commencement of Reaping Recaps.

Hudson's eyes are glued to the screen, consuming every last single word. He knows that whatever will play tonight will be the entire nation's interpretation of every tribute. Positive or negative, these observations could ultimately save Hudson in the long run. He's an extremely vigilant person, paying attention to every detail up to the smallest standpoint. You never know, it could aid you more than you're aware.

"First up, District One's most noxious and pernicious criminals have gathered in the Town Square, almost a thousand pairs of eyes laid on them. It is definitely certain that their tributes this year will be phenomenal!"

The high-pitched, pig-like Escort daintily walked to the podium, before Reaping a young girl, her face showing signs of obvious fear. She stumbled to the stage, tripping over her own feet. Shortly after, the Escort called for Volunteers. There was silence. She tried again and the second time, a sudden movement shot up in the midst of the crowd. The girls parted to reveal a sparkling, shimmering girl with silky, blonde curls rolling down her back like golden waves. Hudson could tell she was once beautiful, but years of prison-time had effects on a person. She was enveloped in a dress of pure sunlight, so it seems, and she bounced cheerfully to the stage. She was humming, an old tune that filled the empty silence of the District One Square. She appeared to be a wondrous, ditsy girl, but Hudson could see, underneath all her vanilla layers, that she had a certain glint in her eyes. A fire that begged to be freed and Hudson knew that she was much more than a pretty face.

The boy called after her was a fairly muscular boy, stalking to the stage, but before he even reached the steps, a resounding voice called out. Another young man, this time bulkier and four times larger than the first, stepped into the aisle. He hobbled to the stage, a gleam in his eyes that shouted he was not to be messed with. With a roar, he bounded to the steps and nearly gave the Escort a heart attack. But from what Hudson could tell, he was all brawns and no brains. At the end, the Escort made them hold hands and their names flashed on the screens. Garnet Hathaway and Glory Prosperous. Hudson made a mental reminder to watch them.

"She seems scary," Cari said, shaking her head. Hudson didn't respond. He'd rather not give her a peek into what he thought.

"They both seem dangerous," Clara adds, "you should definitely look out for them."

"She?" Vasco asks, clearly surprised by her choice of words.

"She's right. The girl has a certain spark in her eyes. Determination, complete rabidness even," Hudson said, a sudden shock to the others since he didn't seem to be much of a conversationalist. He laid on his side, his elbow propped up to support his head.

Next up was District Two, a shockingly bright, clear daylight sky behind the Justice Building. The Escort was swift to pick the girl's name, yanking the first slip out of the bowl. A couple moments passed, another few seconds and still there was no commotion. Girls started to look around, their eyes darting from one person to another before a shrill scream rang out. Then, a string of loud, piercing shouts penetrated the still air. It didn't stop until the Peacekeepers had to shove the girl onstage, pulling her by the hair until she was reduced to a heap of sobs and trembles. There were no Volunteers this time, and the Escort looked like she wanted to tumble down a flight of stairs.

She didn't take her time before strutting to the male's bowl, seeing as her previous method of choosing didn't produce a positive result, she took her time before picking a single, crisp, papyrus slip. A fairly lean boy pushed himself away from the crowd, his eyes searching around the Square before he settled for a stride to the stage. His hands fell stiffly by his sides, his face hardened. But Hudson saw, the twitch in his eyebrows every few seconds and the tug at the corner of his lip, that this boy wasn't always the stoic, calloused person he is now. A short introduction was declared before the Escort announced the tributes, satisfied with the men. The clip ended and their names flashed on stage. Paget Brenner and Kit Cordett. It was surprising, to see that District Two of all placed had no Volunteers this year. The girl was unhinged, completely deranged and the boy maybe had a soft side. They might be a threat, but not quite. Hudson tucked them away at the back of his mind.

"Um," Cari murmured, "that was… different."

"Certainly," Hudson agreed, clearly opening up his social side. "Especially the girl."

Then, the sudden stony, dark clouds of District Three shown overhead. At first, Cari commented that it was the smog from the hundreds of factories until the rain started to pour. They were thunderclouds then, or maybe the Capitol technicians edited in the rainfall to distract the Capitol citizens from the pollution occurring in the Districts. They'll never know.

The Escort walked to the front of the stage, his hand covering his brow like a visor. He made a small speech before reaching his hand into the women's bowl, fishing for a slip that tingled his senses. After a couple of agonizing seconds, he pulled out a name and called it. Before the girl even had the chance to step out, a petite girl raced from the sidelines, her short, bobbed hair shaking as she charged for the stage. A ringing, haunting echo of laughter surrounded the Square, encasing it in a horrific atmosphere. On the stage, her grin was like the hyena mutations a few years ago. In fact, every cold and angular point on the girl's face reminded her of the hyenas. She announced herself as Electra Edison before half snarling, half maniacally chuckling at the audience. Just from her expression, Hudson knew she will be the first to fall.

"Well," Aurelia snorted in disgust at the girl's informality, "even her name sounds horribly pretentious."

There was a silent consensus between all five of us for the first time since we've arrived on the train.

When the boy, Tallis Windsor, also Volunteered, they all gasped in pure shock. He was not a magnificent sight, but neither was that girl. He wasn't even that handsome, just a sharp-looking boy. He strode to the stage, his face completely expressionless. Hudson squinted, he even tried to lean closer to the screen to get a better view of the boy's face, but even then, he couldn't spot a trace of emotion. Not anxiousness, fear, sadness or even anger. Hudson sighed, knowing that these tributes were always the most dangerous, regardless of their physique. They were the ones that made it to the finale almost every Game, unless they're gunned down early.

"He's trouble," Clara speaks my thoughts, her face composed of stricken worry.

"Seriously?" Cari asks, her face puzzled. "Even more than the girl?"

"Look at him, what do you see?" Hudson said, interceding their conversation.

"Nothing," Cari responded.

"Exactly," He confirmed, his eyes resting once again on the holographic screen.

Then, the familiar setting of District Four filled the screen. Hudson could swear he could smell the salty whiffs even from the other side of the television. He saw Cari as she walked to the stage, a terrible look of grief on her face. Her eyes frantically seemed to search the crowd, as if trying to find a loved one but to no avail. In the end, she kept her vision narrowed to one spot even as the cameras rolled on. All her family was dead after all.

Hudson's head cocked to the side as his own face was shown on the stage, Arcadia commenting constructive and affirmative compliments as he shoved the other imprisoned Volunteers to the side, rushing to the stage in a blur of gasps and shouts. From this bird-eye's perspective, Hudson could've sworn he looked like a rabid dog. This could give the other tributes an inaccurate assumption about him. However, for the rest of the Reaping, he tried to keep the most neutralized expression on his face. It worked.

District Five was then featured on the television, the ongoing rush of water visible in the background. It may've not been District Four, but the hydro-electric dams of Five produced millions of gallons of water enough to fill the largest lake in Four. The Escort bounced to the stage, her wig about as giant as a bush. It seemed to be made of candy floss, since that trend seemed to stay in style after the District Six Victor a couple years back won his Games after he was sponsored a wad of cotton candy. Anyway, the Escort pulled out the first slip that touched her fingers and Elizabeth Millenium stumbled to the stage. Her face was withholding a waterfall of tears, as it seems. But at the last moment, she jumped up onto the stage and with a strong spark of determination, spoke a few charming words into the microphone. _Screw the Capitol._

Well, Hudson can guess who's dying in the Bloodbath this year.

The boy was shocked out of his mind when his name was called. His face turned a pale white, his eyes widening visibly. He was obviously anxious, his fingers fidgeting with his watch and his constant lip biting. He tried to put on a mask of indifference, but it was easily cracked as the Escort waved him upwards. A single tear fell down his cheek, his eyelids constantly blinking.

The Escort asked him a question to which he answered intellectually, but was overcome by his emotions. He choked on his saliva, quickly silencing himself.

"They seem decent," Vasco said, leaning onto the arm of Cari's chair. Clara was above Hudson's, sitting on the top of the pillows. She ran a hand through her hair, sighing.

"Excuse me," she said, getting up, "I'm getting a beer. Don't even think about asking for one, Hudson."

She stops Hudson mid-sentence and leaves him with a grin on his face.

The screen fades out, revealing the dreary skies of District Six. Clear smoke rose into the air and even now, the Capitol cannot cover it up with pretend rainfall. The Escort coughs as she swaggers to the stage, clutching a polished, manicured hand over her throat as she excused herself to the polluted air of the District. In substitution of her rant, she boredly drew a name from the girl's bowl. A decently attractive girl walked into the open aisle, curly cascading locks of chocolate brown drops down her shoulders. The more you gaze at the girl, the more appealing she becomes. She folds her arms around her chest, clutching herself for dear life. She forced her legs to move forward, and Hudson could tell she wished she was back in her bed. Silent tears fell down her cheeks, and she wiped her eyes as she reached the stage. Honestly, Hudson didn't see her as much of a threat besides the amount of sponsors she's bound to receive.

The boy who was Reaped beside her wasn't much of a sight either. He sulked up to the stage, his ash-blonde dropping onto his face. It covered his pallid complexion and sunken cheeks, as well as the thin tears that fell down the sides of his face. They trickled slowly, each softly falling onto the muddy, Six floor as he walked up. Hudson felt a sense of pity for these kids, surely, they won't last long. Hudson makes sure to note that the girl would be a donation drainer and the boy was a silent ghost. He wouldn't lose sight of them during the Bloodbath, nor the Games.

"They're decent," Clara slurs, stumbling back from the bar and away from a wary bartender. The Reaping Recaps went into an intermission, as the television droned on about the new top plasma-plastic surgeons.

"What do you guys think of our competition?" Vasco asked, as he slid off the armchair.

"I don't know," Cari said, softly chuckling. "I was hoping you'd answer that."

Hudson don't answer, his cerulean eyes glued to the floor.

Because it seems like only Hudson is aware that in a month, maybe even less, all but one of them will dead. All but one of their corpses will be delivered to the prison because that was the only home they had.

And Hudson was certain he was not going to be one of those.

 **xxx**

 **Sorry, guys. There may be some errors because I didn't have time to send it to my editor. I really needed to get it out to you guys today since I don't wanna ruin the schedule. Thanks! And sorry, Amie!**


	8. Train: My Heart Lead Me to My Death

**Hey guys! If you have seen my profile, you must've seen that this chapter was forced to be delayed. I am very sorry, not only am I disappointed about how I let you guys down, I let myself down. Two chapters will be posted today, hopefully. Thanks for understanding.**

 _Wyatt Sparkley, District Five, Train:_

"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll get back to you, right after these commercials!" Arcadia ecstatically shouted, a gleaming smile erupting across her face. Her teeth were dyed lavender, a shimmering color that was so lively, Wyatt felt like it was being shoved down his throat.

"Half-wit monkeys," Wyatt muttered, his voice a combination of a silent whisper and a deep growl.

"What did you say, dear?" Pompatrina, District Five's Escort squealed, her voice projected across the carriage.

As a response, Wyatt shook his head, his lips pursed in distaste. He dismissed her with a small flick of his hand before turning his attention to the vocalist on the television, advertising voice box surgeries.

"The entirety of District One's Reaping was terrifying. Both of them seemed insane," his quick-witted District partner, Elizabeth, answered. Wyatt mutually agreed with her, goosebumps grew on his arms just pondering about it.

But, that was nonsense. They might be rabid and frightening, but if one were to outwit them, they'd be of no threat. There was no need to worry if Wyatt punctured one of their vital arteries with a swift slash. Simple as advanced calculus.

"Along with the District Four boy. He seemed quite like a ravaging coyote to me, despite his attempt at a relaxed demeanor. His actions beforehand were evident enough to his brink of insanity," Wyatt interceded Pompatrina and Elizabeth, quickly stating his thoughts before retreating back to his orchestra advertisements.

Magdala Linfadel, District Five's only Victor and Mentor, came to a consensus with the clever boy, nodding her head. She was rather old, grown meek and timid after decades of watching the children she trained die so abruptly. As much as she denied it, Magdala didn't nearly become attached to her tributes as she used to. That was until now.

She stared intently at Wyatt and the boy, being the observant and critical person he is, senses her gaze. He uncomfortably shifts in his seat, knowing that the old woman's eyes were rested on him. Magdala was actually impressed by his canny personality, and if by any luck, District Five may finally be crowned with another Victor.

But that was until she looked at Elizabeth. The girl was obviously a fighter, a fiery soul that not a single person, not even President Leonides himself, could extinguish her flame. After all, every rebellion begins with a spark. This girl, this charming and adroit young lady, would no doubt make it far into the Games. And might even make it out. The only thing that was standing in her way? Personal ties.

Wyatt saw the light in Magdala's eyes, as she stared at Elizabeth. He saw how she praised Elizabeth, how the Victor looked at Elizabeth like she was her own daughter.

And at that moment, the second where Wyatt realized he was the one left in the dust, he became angry. At Elizabeth, at Magdala, at Pompatrina, at the Capitol, at the world.

A brewing madness blossomed inside his chest, ignited by Elizabeth's very flame.

"So, what are your strategies?" Pompatrina asked the question everyone was trying to avoid. Not just for the sake to forget about the Hunger Games, but because they all had no idea what their plans were.

"I think I'll go with-"

"I'm going to publicise myself as an intelligent, genuine tribute. I must prove myself as a contender, not cannon fodder," Wyatt rudely interrupted Elizabeth, leaving her in shock. He ignored her puzzling eyes, watching the empty flower pot on the sidetable.

"Um," Elizabeth continued. "I believe I want people to view me as someone who'll hold grudges, someone who's not afraid to slice off your head. But I don't want to appear as someone who'll be an evident threat."

"Smart choice," Pompatrina smiled, satisfied with both of their answers. Elizabeth's a slight more. "In order to avoid the watchful eyes of the Careers, you must-"

"Kill youself," Wyatt said bluntly, observing his nails. It was so nonchalant, so without thought that it could've slipped into a casual conversation and no one would've noticed. But this was on a train heading to a deathmatch. Not everyone would ignore Wyatt's words this time, not like in his household.

"What?" Magdala said, for the first time since the entire ride. Her gums were rotted and most of her teeth were falling. It sounded more like she said wombat.

Pompatrina sent Wyatt a disgusted look, a clear sight of shock etched onto every line of her face. Elizabeth, otherwise, heaved a great sigh and stood from her chair.

"I'm going to get a glass of water before the Reapings start once more," she said, her legs trembling as she walked. As usual, Wyatt noticed. He wondered if this was because she was scared or if she was tired. It could've been both. But tiny details like this, it could help him in the Arena.

Elizabeth was fatigued, a weak figure regardless of her charismatic attitude. That made it that much easier to stick a knife in her back.

"I am going to join you," Pompatrina said, helping to lift Magdala to her feet before exiting the room. "Care to join, Wyatt?"

Wyatt shook his head, exhaling deeply as the door of the carriage snapped shut. He looked at his surroundings. There was a nice, U-shaped couch facing the large, holographic television screen that was now a blank screen.

Lush, velvet curtains were draped across windows. They shook as the breeze carried them, bringing a soft current of wind into the room. Unlike the other high-tech, luxury trains, District Five ironically received the archaic ones that took tributes like Katniss Everdeen into the Hunger Games.

The ceiling was low, but bright bulbs hung from them. At the moment, they were switched off and other times, they flickered to life as the train passed over a curve in the tracks.

Wyatt desperately wanted to unscrew a bulb from the roof, tear it apart to see every function and wire that made the light flash. But that was his immense curiosity calling him, tugging at his desires, to keep his mind on something other than going into the Hunger Games.

Then, the quick twinkle of the bulb invoked something into his mind, memories that kept Wyatt awake at night. He had tried to hard to drown them, to make these thoughts disappear.

Thoughts of murder, of the prison, of his family, of the shame he was always burdened with.

Being born into a massive family of seven was always a hardship Wyatt had to deal with. He was always overlooked, his name mistaken for that of his five other brothers and even his sister, once. He was always the one to participate in all the daily chores, despite being the third youngest.

The only factor that gave him an ounce of acknowledgement was his school grades. Excelling in every subject, Wyatt was often praised by both his teachers and his elders. He won several academic contests, inventing the multi-use, antigravity remote even.

Despite Wyatt's financial luxuries and his reputation as an electrical genius, he never had many friends. And if he ever did achieve any, they would abandon him for the next boy that managed to score a top grade on the EGFY (Electricity and Geology For Youth).

Therefore, when he did have his share of acquaintances, Wyatt went to every measure to ensure that they would find Wyatt as a sufficient friend.

He bought them food when they didn't have enough money, he helped them study for the upcoming exams, he gave them his outgrown clothes to drape over their skin and bones. There was nothing they could've done to upset Wyatt.

Except for one.

A boy once, someone who Wyatt believed to be his friend, constantly assaulted his friends, Wyatt included. He usually shoved them to the ground, giving them scrapes and bruises their parents would question them about.

The day that the boy poured chocolate milk on Wyatt's newest shoes, he knew that he had enough of his bully. That following day, Wyatt had taken as many electrical construction handbooks he could find. He gathered as many scrap parts he found in the labs, stealing them when the teachers weren't looking. Then again, they would most likely mistake him for his sibling.

When the next sun had risen, Wyatt walked to school with a lively contraption in his hands. His parents didn't even notice that one of their children had walked to school carrying a deathtrap.

It's one of the perks of being the fifth child in a family of seven.

Of course, being at the young age that Wyatt was, he carried the electro-magnetic electrocution device into school. The little genius planned to gather all of the school's electricity power into his one machine before releasing the growing laser on the bully. It didn't work.

Instead of collecting the school's hardwired electricity, it captured the entire District's. The whole District went through forty eight hours of excruciating heat and lack of electricity after the incident. The transmitter didn't work either, instead, it imploded on itself and was blasted to smithereens. One of Wyatt's worst guilts.

Since he was only thirteen, barely over the Reaping age, his sentence was shorter than what an adult would've received. It was two months in solitary prison and apparently, his name was tripled in the Reaping Bowls. He was also recommended to enroll in mental therapy rehabilitation.

It didn't surprise Wyatt when his silly Escort, Pompatrina, pulled out a slip with his name written across in a neat font.

As if therapy could cure him, what could rid a person of intelligence? Complete failure, loss of effort, mental sickness. All of which he made sure would never occur. He couldn't risk losing his mind, after all.

The doors swung open, a mildly exasperated Elizabeth stumbles through. A slack, pallid tone was written across her face. Was it… guilt?

Accompanying her was Pompatrina, who piled from behind her with a drink clutched between her fingertips. Wyatt was certain it wasn't water. A bold smile was smeared on her face, and she took a seat on the side of the couch furthest from the screen and from Elizabeth.

Magdala was nowhere to be found, even after a couple minutes of waiting for the old woman to hobble through the door. Nothing.

"How were the refreshments?" Wyatt asked, raising an eyebrow at Pompatrina's stirred alcohol.

"Purr-fect," she responded, her speech as slurred as a cat. Her eyelids seem to droop over her eyes, like whatever was in her liquid make her sleepy.

Elizabeth was still slacken, ignoring both my comment and Pompatrina's lucid state. She was staring straight at the television, blankly looking ahead.

"Welcome back, Panem!" Arcadia Hillmont shouted, quickly followed by an onset of cheers. "After that short intermission, we're ready to begin the next stage of the Reapings. There will be no Careers on-forth, but I can assure you eager watchers, that they will be just as exciting."

Arcadia's bouncing locks of lavender were faded away as the green, lush setting of District Seven filled the screen. Branches and weeds were growing from the cracked cement, leaves reaching onto the stage like an overgrown jungle. Wyatt must admit, that'd be the perfect area for a subtle biological test. He almost wished he was there now, up until the Escort stomped to the stage, wearing eleven-inch wedges, strutting his stuff. And then he pulled out a white slip, a poor girl's name was scribbled across the paper in calligraphy. A short girl with red hair stepped from the older section, a determined look on her face as she strode to the stage. However, before she even reached the stairs, a hand shot into the air. Another person had Volunteered.

This time, the girl was much taller, easily towering over the original tribute. She wore her hair in a short, pixie cut. It was messily chopped, strands hanging over her eyes like the branches of a willow tree. A bitter look was etched onto her face, an expression of sheer ambition and most frightening, calmness. It was as if she didn't even acknowledge the fact that she was digging her own grave.

The Escort, who introduced himself as Septimus, took her hand and led her to the stage. He was beaming, a fantastic smile sprawled across his face.

The Escort's teeth were eerily white, like sparkling. It must've been made of pure ivory. Goosebumps grew on Wyatt's arms, knowing that this Reaped girl could be his killer.

Septimus, who was overly excited for the Reaping, pulled another name out of the boy's bowl. It took a few moments before a scowling boy emerged from the crowd. He was apart of the younger children, one of the few in the Sixteen section.

He stood at an impeccable height, his jawline and cheekbones defined and his eyes a mysterious gray. The boy was handsome; a likely choice for old women who wanted a young, pretty boy to step out of the Arena. Muscles bulged from the inside of his shirt, giving him a rugged and tough demeanor. Wyatt could tell from his hard look, with narrow and furrowed eyebrows, that he spent a lot of his time in prison thinking. About what, that would be unclear to Wyatt. This time, there were no Volunteers.

The Escort seemed to be okay with that, considering that the boy surpassed the typical District Seven standard. That was until the boy sneered at the audience, before coughing up a wad of phlegm and spitting it onto the ground before him. _Fuck you all,_ his eyes seemed to shout.

"Well, there you have it, folks!" Septimus said, his voice crisp on the loudspeakers. "Your amazing, noble and courageous tributes: Rowanne Barker and Easton Faraday."

"A definite threat," Wyatt said, shuddering at the thought of their axes.

"I agree," Elizabeth's voice was sharp and sudden. She stared intently at the screen, as if she could peel all the wires from the machine just by the power of her mind. "Unless they make an alliance and then they kill eachother."

Well, that was sudden. Wyatt was surprised by her words, his expression creasing in thought.

Pompatrina looked like she was sober for a moment, her eyes pitiful and sorrowful, staring at Elizabeth. She seemed like she wanted to rush over and hug Elizabeth, but instead, she returned to her previous state and slouched in her seat.

Strange.

Almost immediately, District Eight's clouded District Square popped into view. Purple, pink and all kinds of radiant colors were sewn into a curtain that fell across the beams of the Justice Building roof.

Wyatt had to admit一 it looked amazing. He'd never imagine District Five's dreary and musty building to ever look like District Eight's. Jubilant, bright and cheerful even as it condemns at least one child to death.

As tradition follows, the ladies were up first. A young looking Escort, who must've been in her early twenties, walked to the podium. She said a few words of encouragement and sacrifice before reaching into the glass bowl and picking the only lucky winner. Soie Dentelle, her name is.

The thin woman separated herself from the buzzing group of elder prisoners, who were all sneers and scowls. Soie, on the other hand, was merely shocked. A clear expression of dumbfoundedness was scrawled over her face. Something was off about her.

Her teeth were yellow, obviously rotting. Her cheeks were sunken into her bones, to the point where you could see her bones. Her hairline was receding, her once-luscious brown hair quickly shedding.

She was a morphling addict.

"Looks like we got ourselves the first blood," Wyatt scoffed, satisfied with her reputation. The girl will be easy competition, it will take little effort to outsmart her. Considering that the morphling was slowly eating away at her brain cells, by the time all twenty three of us arrived at the Arena, she'd be half-dead.

After being slightly disappointed, the Escort grimly pulls the slip from the boy's bowl. Jute Drason's laugh pierced the air and he vaguely reminded Wyatt of a mixture of the girl from One, Garnet and the two girl, Paget.

After being nudged into the crowd, the boy that's shove is much different than the one that laughed. Instead of the crazed boy, he was furious. His face was a deep, flushing red. He stomped to the stage and Wyatt watched with a perplexed expression. He seemed to be bipolar. Or just insane.

A small grin broke across Jute's face as he stood on the stage, much to Soie's surprise who stared at him like he was ghost. After they had been introduced, the scene flashed to District Nine.

Amber waves of grain flooded the picture, whistling autumn breezes ruffled the auburn and ash-blonde hair of the citizens who stood in a neat formation, each person facing the stage. If there was ever an award for the most loyal District, it would be Nine. When the Second Rebellion came, each side's first act was to recruit District Nine. Not only did they have their share of warriors, but the abundance of wheat that came from there was enough to feed an entire District for a month.

The Escort, this time dressed in a kilt of wheat, wobbled to the front of the stage. He delivered a short District on his pride of being Nine's Escort and his newest honey-colored, altered eyecolor to represent the District.

After constant ramblings, he finally reached into the crystal bowl, dug around for a couple moments before pulling out a crisp, pearly paper. A fairly large, muscled girl stepped from beyond the rank of sixteen-year-olds.

Wyatt expected her to go forward, make some kind of movement. Instead, she remained still.

At her sudden abruptness, a Peacekeeper stepped forward. He made his way over to her, pushing aside wary teenagers that tried to take a peek at what the commotion was all about. Before he could lay a hand on her, she turned and bit him. A sharp yelp filled the air like a song before the girl rushed to the stage. The Escort tried to ask her a question, but instead, all the girl did was snarl and hiss at him.

"Well, she seems strange," Wyatt offhandedly commented. "And slightly out of her mind."

The Escort seemed thrown off by her behavior, and in replacement, headed to the boy's bowl in order to distract the District and especially Panem from focusing on the possible rebel tribute from District Nine.

The Escort barely reached into the men's bowl before a bulky, muscled man stepped aside from the group. He looked nothing like something that should come out of District Nine.

"Wow," Pompatrina even said, her eyes glazed over, "200 pounds of pure muscle."

Wyatt couldn't help his jaw from falling at the thought. This man, this _boy,_ looked far more dangerous than any other Career tribute. He had no stubble, unlike most men in his District and a Panem flag was draped over his shoulders like a cape. A charming, heart-warming smile was spread across his face, a true patriot in all his glory.

Horatius, District Nine's Escort, was in pure shock. He didn't even know what to say, even as the man walked right onto the stage. When he said his name was Tiller Storm, all the Escort could do was stare. He was speechless. The girl's name flashed across the screen: Etsumi Jukudo.

Wyatt backed from the screen, sighing deeply. Pompatrina was downing another drink, throwing her frizzy, cotton-candy hair behind her back. But the most unnerving was Elizabeth, who looked like she was going to faint.

But the most frightening part? When Elizabeth looked into his eyes, and _really_ looked at him. All he saw was:

Murder.

 _Elizabeth Millenium, District Five, Train:_

 **Thirty minutes earlier…**

"Meet me outside," Magdala had said to her before the Reaping Recaps began. "When it's the right time."

So, when the intermission started, Elizabeth saw her chance.

"I'm going to get a glass of water before the Reapings start once more," she said, much to Wyatt's weariness. Her lower thighs was streaked with red lines after lounging on the sofa for such a long time.

It was true, Elizabeth was extremely tired. Not only has she been involved in multiple, tiny rebellions, but she had aided Katniss Everdeen herself. Her father had stormed the hydroelectric dam, the Coriolanus 65, when the Second Rebellion was still intact. He had died singing the Hanging Tree for the sake of that archer girl, but she failed. Not only herself, but all of us. More than five-hundred thousand people, half the nation, have died because of the Rebellion's failure.

"I am going to join you," Pompatrina said, helping to lift Magdala to her feet before exiting the room. "Care to join, Wyatt?"

Wyatt shook his head, his eyes directed towards the television. Elizabeth had always thought that the boy was introverted, always keeping to himself. She had heard that he was a top student, but Elizabeth had never attended one course. It was a miracle how gifted she was at articulation and public speaking.

Elizabeth didn't want to watch the Reapings anymore. Every muscle in her body ached with soreness and the comfort of the couch was new to her touch. She'd always laid on hard, metal cots her entire life. Never once had she sat on a feather-filled cushion. It was like sitting on a cloud.

In all honesty, Elizabeth was actually looking for water. Thirst was a common deficient in District Five, since most of the filtered water was transported to the Capitol.

"Wait," Magdala had mumbled, hobbling towards her before placing a wrinkly, frail hand on her shoulder. "We need to talk about survive."

It was difficult to understand the old woman, but Elizabeth tried her best. She had a desire to throw the woman's hand off her, as she wasn't open to physical contact after a Peacekeeper had hit her.

"Yes, Miss Linfadel," Elizabeth responded, trying her best to smile.

"Magdala," the old lady spoke again, her tone this time stern and cold. Much like the once athletic, determined girl who cut through all her allies and then again with the Careers before walking out of the Arena with a coat of crimson.

"Yes, Magdala," she said, nodding her head in understanding.

Magdala opens her mouth, before sputtering in a fit of coughs. Her hand clasps around her throat, as if clawing out the ash. If Elizabeth knew one thing about the Victors, was that they all had a hatch to distract them from the nightmares.

Magdala's just happened to be nicotine. Whether it's old-fashioned cigars and cigarettes, or the newly-modernized e-cigarette or digital smoke-outlet. She'll smoke anything just for an ounce of nicotine, to Elizabeth, it was disgusting. Of course, she could never say it to Magdala's face.

Pompatrina wraps her arms around Magdala, leading her onto a stool before facing Elizabeth. Much to Elizabeth's surprise, Pompatrina wasn't smiling anymore.

A cold, calloused expression was folded across her face. She was biting her lip, that a purple taint started to grow near the bottom. Her eyes constantly flicked to the door, as if she was expecting someone to burst into the room.

"Elizabeth," she said, "I need you to listen very clearly. Magdala and I had known since you were Reaped and the events on this train further confirmed our suspicions."

Elizabeth tilts her head, obviously confused. She hadn't quite grasped what Pompatrina was trying to say.

"Wyatt," Pompatrina spat out, warily looking at the door once again. "You need to kill him first."

"What?" Elizabeth couldn't believe what she was hearing. She mouthed the words, attempting to process what Pompatrina said.

It made no sense. What good would it do you to kill your own District partner? Wyatt seemed like a nice, if not charming, boy to Elizabeth. She had figured he would've made a seemingly perfect ally, since two brains are stronger than one. She'd rarely heard about him around the distance and only recognized him when his last name was called.

His siblings were something of pride in the District. She didn't know why. Elizabeth guessed one of them invented a filter that sorted the bacteria from the water faster than ever. Wyatt was born into a family of legacies.

"You heard right," Pompatrina nodded, her eyes sorrowful. "Wyatt is not only extremely intelligent, but he's very deceiving according to our records. He's very desperate to get out of that Arena, to make a name for himself. He'll go to any length to win. Even if it meant stabbing you in the back.

You just have to do it first. Your mission has been verified by both Magdala and I. We want you to befriend him, give him the illusion that you're someone he can trust. From what we've discovered, he values loyalty and friendship. Then, you need to make him feel comforted during Training. Compliment him, avoid the Careers together, stick by his side. Even if it means ignoring the other stations, trust me, it'll save your life."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Elizabeth questioned, being the inquisitive girl she was. For all she was aware, these two women were planning to send both Elizabeth and Wyatt to the grave. Who knows? Capitol citizens are sick, and if you win, you're basically one of them.

"Magdala asked the same thing. Then she clawed her way out of the Arena, with me by her side."

Just from that statement, Elizabeth was convinced. She'd known that in order to make it out, there would be some difficult tasks to fulfill.

"Oh, also, there was something else," Pompatrina whispered, leaning into Elizabeth. The girl from Five scooted back, obviously disturbed by the lack of personal space. "Be careful what you say out there, Lizzie. They already have tabs on you because of the… you know."

"The what?" Elizabeth asked, though she had an idea.

Elizabeth was born during the Second Rebellion of the Mockingjay, after hormones produced stress-induced sexual cravings and the desire for love, for physical contact. Therefore, her parents, Isaak and Deena, who were both apart of the same rebel militia. Deena was a medic, someone who ran around the battlefield and dragged wounded soldiers back to their camp to stitch them up before sending them right back out again. They were just as important as the actual fighters.

Isaak, who was a famed general, was heavily muscled and extremely attractive. Most of his time was spent strategizing, his mind often racked by the duties of a commander. He took more than a couple hundred lives in the war, leading the Southern Districts to near victory.

A year later, he was shot in the chest by patriotic Peacekeepers. Good things never last, do they? After he had died, Elizabeth's mom fell into a state of fear and loss. She never remarried, she never felt any emotion for any man beside her deceased husband. Some even say she's gone insane after the lack of feeling.

Elizabeth thought otherwise. She thought that it was the most romantic thing she'd ever witnessed, a widow waiting to die in order to meet her husband. She would sit out eternity until she'd finally passed. Elizabeth, as eerie as it sounds, was okay with the fact that her mother could be dead while she was gone. She didn't see her mother's death as a goodbye, no. Her mother was going home.

Nevertheless, being a rebel baby, she'd been involved in plenty little, rebellious gatherings. They weren't much, but they did what they could to show defiance. Elizabeth knew that they were never going to be strong enough to take on the Capitol, being a secret society requires secrecy after all.

Elizabeth had burned a couple of Panem flags, stole some food, but she was always left off the hook. She was a girl, young and innocent. She had a knack for opening up the more sentimental side of the Peacekeepers. But the last straw was manslaughter.

Her brother, Watt, was apart of the criminal ring with her, up until he was shot in the leg by a Peacekeeper. He had shoved Elizabeth, begging her to escape. All she could do was obey him for the last time.

They took him to prison and organized his live persecution, his death sentence for treason, in the Town Square. They never did and when Elizabeth asked them about it, all they did was whip her for being nosy and sent her back to her home since she was out after curfew.

Besides, she'd never been satisfactory at escaping. After she had shot two Peacekeepers with their own guns, she was surrounded by their comrades almost immediately.

Elizabeth liked to say that being thrown in prison hardened her, toughened her skin. But really, it never did. If anything, it made her weaker. Beat her until she was nothing.

"Your family," Pompatrina said. Elizabeth knew it, clutching her locket in the pocket of her pants. "They're Rebels."

Elizabeth stood still for a second, peeking at Magdala for a hint on what to say. She got none as the old woman stared at her, her face blank. Elizabeth couldn't even tell if Magdala was looking at her, for her cross-eyes were so bad.

After a couple seconds, she nodded, confirming the subject. Pompatrina wasn't surprised, instead, she threw Elizabeth in a hug.

"Take them down," Pompatrina whispered, softly in her ear, before releasing her.

Elizabeth stood still as Pompatrina took Magdala to her room, exiting with a flurry of bottles in her hands.

"Last time you'll see me sober," she winked, before pouring the liquor down her throat. It didn't even seem to burn, unlike when Elizabeth drank her first alcoholic drink.

Closing her eyes and breathing hard, she pushed open the door. Wyatt was lying on the couch, his head swinging as she walked in. Without a word, she made a dive for the seat.

Guilt, regret and a decision that could end her life rest on Elizabeth's shoulders.

 **Currently…**

Elizabeth's teeth grinded against eachother and her jaws were clenched, the insides of her cheeks were bleeding by the end of the District Nine Reaping. The girl, Etsumi, seemed like an amazing ally.

Not only did she appear to be apart of the rebellion, she was fiery and spirited. Elizabeth had to give her that. She was starting to like District Nine, up to the point when the patriot Volunteered. He had a Panem flag draped across his shoulders, like a meek replica of a cross. It was the same emblem that Elizabeth had set fire to so many times.

She wouldn't mind doing so again.

To clear her mind, the setting shifted to District Ten. Clear, blue skies were shown above the Square. They were definitely enhanced, seeing the strange artificial lining in the upper area of the screen.

The Escort stepped out onto the stage, covered in a basil leaf suit. He patted down his slacks before announcing his honor in being in District Ten. It was said so many times, Elizabeth wondered if it was mandatory that every Escort say that.

He reached his hand into the bowl, fishing for the finest slip. After a couple long seconds and a shout of impatience, the man whipped out a crisp sheet. He slowly waddled to the stage, where he took his time to inhale and exhale before reading out the name.

"Carmen... Carmen?"

Elizabeth was confused, waiting for something else. But there was nothing the Escort said. This girl had no surname, or none that the Capitol had in their records. Which was a rarity no one had ever heard of.

There was no movement, not even a flicker of acknowledgement until a girl was shoved into the aisle, landing on her hands. However, that wasn't what caught her eye.

Elizabeth leaned closer to the screen, squinting. Wyatt followed suit, his eyes widening when he realized what Minx was wearing. Even Pompatrina, who was as drunk as a lumberjack from Seven, gasped in shock.

Minx was wearing lingerie. Her chest was nearly exposed, you could clearly see the imprint of her breasts even from the stage camera. Her hair was a mess, with flowing brown curls that fell down her back like the water in the dams. She was barefoot, her soles bleeding from the cuts. She looked dirty and ragged. Almost immediately, Elizabeth could tell she was a prostitute. However, odd as it was, for someone who looked as dedicated as her, she didn't seem to make much money.

She stumbled to the stage, tripping over her own feet. When asked what her name was, she said she didn't remember. There was something definitely wrong.

Eventually, she said that her name was Minx Lovelace. Until the Escort announced that it was her 'performance' alias, according to local customers. So, basically, the name she went by when she stripped for horny, old men.

Hoping to clear the mixup, the Escort quickly picked a male tribute, desperate to draw the attention away from the prostitute.

It almost worked. Shepard Sutton was called to the stage, who was a simpering thirteen-year-old. Elizabeth frowned, knowing that someone his age wouldn't last long in the Hunger Games. He tried to put on his best courageous face, before he broke into tears. Elizabeth wanted to jump through the stage, comfort him.

But she knew she couldn't, she wouldn't. She would do anything to harden her mind, to ready herself mentally for the time in the Arena.

The Escort, knowing it was a Quarter Quell, hoped for Volunteers. There were a few murmurs, but in the end, no one Volunteered.

"Well, guess District Ten will be the first to fall," Wyatt laughed, much to Elizabeth's distaste. She had always thought it was rude to judge someone, or some District, based on purely their appearance. They had that one Victor years back that held her reputation as a wimpy Eleven tribute before slaughtering half the Career alliance.

"You never know," Elizabeth said, vocalizing her thoughts. Wyatt shrugged, looking away.

Next, District Eleven's green meadows appeared on the screen. The Escort, a young man who was wrapped in only a loincloth. His skin was dyed purple: a deep, radiant purple that screamed insanity.

He gave a little speech, about how adorable the children that came out of this District were. Behind him, the Victor Elizabeth had been thinking of earlier, Paloma van Dimas sneered. She threw her dark, ebony hair behind her back in dignity before taking her seat with a snarl.

She sent a couple hundred Capitol citizens into bankruptcy with her unexpected victory. Some argue it's even better than the one Johanna Mason played a half a century earlier. Paloma was a thousand times more talented and thousand times more vicious.

The Escort smiled as he pulled out a strip, taped together by a black edging. The Escort, Bacchus, peeled open the slip. With a clear, resounding voice, he announced that Talya River was the selected female for the Hunger Games.

A cocoa-skinned woman stepped out from the stands, a sneer glued to her face. A leer that made Paloma proud and half the tributes terrified. She was taller than most girls, most likely the tallest female in this year's Hunger Games, with a decent amount of muscle in her. Her face was defined, her cheekbones angular and a sloping forehead. But the one feature that shone out was her golden-rimmed eyes, a trait that no one, but Talya River possessed.

She spat on the ground, stomping her way to the stage as she muttered censored obscenities that must've only been native to Eleven. Although Elizabeth didn't quite understand the slang, she knew by the tone that it wasn't a compliment. Honestly, Bacchus seemed a little frightened and backed away, his eyes wide.

He scooted over to the male's bowl, picking a similar slip that he tore open in his hands. A young boy was called, a meager child who waddled to the stage. He must've been arrested for something tiny, like biting into an apple. Elizabeth knew that offenses were taken harshly in the lower Districts, ones like Eleven and Twelve.

Just as he made it to the stage, a porcelain hand rose into the air. A ringing, angelic shout was heard, as a lean, but shorter man separated himself from the crowd. It was a strange sight, to see a white man for once be Reaped instead of a darker-skinned tribute.

In the back of the audience, an abrupt cry was heard. Coming from the Peacekeeper ranks. This boy, who introduced himself as Caspar Holden, was a child of a Peacekeeper.

But what made Wyatt and Elizabeth both twitch was Talya. As she heard his name, she shouted in a scream of fury before lashing out at the boy. She raked her fingernails down his cheek, drawing blood before Paloma made it to the front and pulled the two apart.

"Looks like they know each other," Elizabeth said, shaking her head.

"Not on the best of terms, either," Wyatt chimed in, hugging a pillow close to his chest.

After the scandal could be further televised, their names flashed across the bottom of the screen before we were greeted by the smoky, dreary District Square of Twelve. Clouds of smoke and smog rose from the buildings and the cameras were constantly switching to find a decent position to record footage.

The Escort, Merriana, who was the Escort for Twelve since the longest time. It was rumored that Merriana is very determined to get a Victor, then she'll accept her promotion. For now, she remains constantly frustrated by the fact that she was so close to victory only to lose it.

Merriana made a short declaration about the District before heading to the girls' bowl. She had a cheery smile on her face as she dug into the bin, playing with the papyrus before finally plucking one from the bowl. She rose it above the microphone, proclaiming the name of a poor, young girl. In Twelve, there was certain there'll be no Volunteers. The last Volunteer from that District Twelve was Katniss Everdeen during the 74th and Peeta Mellark during the 75th. We all know that ended.

A small, elfish girl immediately raced out from the crowd, jumping over ropes and crowds of screaming civilians. The cameras tried to zoom in on her face, but was unable to. All the audience could see was a dark, shadowy figure that hopped over obstacles. She made it halfway up a building before she was captured, dragged across the asphalt to the Escort. But instead of disapprovement, it was pride. Merriana seemed to have faith in this frail, lithe girl who managed to escape miles of Peacekeepers.

Elizabeth could tell she was expecting more when she waved the slip of paper with a boy's name in front of her face, calling out to the crowd.

A shocked boy was Reaped, who stepped out from the fifteen-year-olds section. For a couple moments, he seemed confused. When the Peacekeepers, who were already irritated started to move forward, he rushed to the stage. Elizabeth didn't see him as much, but he sure looked sweet.

Their name, Sylvie Anderson and Troye Coalton featured across the screen, with block lettering and the signature font for the Hunger Games. However, just as the room was about to breathe a sigh of relief, a sudden flash zoomed across the screen and the television went dark. The Capitol Broadcast Channel (CBC) warning announcement suddenly pops up over the screen.

 _Please wait. Disturbances are occurring._

"Hello?" A voice from the other calls, scratchy and difficult to make out. It's like Pompatrina is sober again, her eyes widening and she's visibly paling.

Elizabeth leaned so close that she's almost fallen out of her chair, her jaws falling open.

 _Please wait. D-_

 _D-_

 _D-_

 _-Urbances._

"Hello," a new face covers the screen, one that looked eerily familiar to Elizabeth. "Is it working? Yeah, it's working, we're connected. Well, hello there. You must be wondering who I am and where I am, what I am, all that. What you need to know is District Thirteen is still alive. We're still fighting, as should you. We're here to make a deal. We want Elizabeth Millenium in exchange for negotiating terms before we release our nuclear arsenal unto the Capitol. You have five days, up until all tributes are launched into the Arena. Five days until the Capitol is in flames. You have your deal, now make your choice."

Elizabeth perked upwards, the train grinding to a halt.

She knew who he was: her brother.

 **xxx**

 **I FEEL REALLY BAD FOR GETTING THIS CHAPTER OUT SO LATE.**


	9. Prep Center and Parade: Our Last Breath

_Kara Arsenault, District Six, Prep. Centre & The Parade of Tributes:_

The train screeches to a stop, lurching all four of them forward. Kara bites her tongue as she rocks ahead. The bitter, sour taste of blood fills her mouth, the inside of her cheek now swollen.

"I still can't get used to it," Katya, Kara's Escort, says as she pulls up her trousers.

Kara sends her an empathetic look, but can't resist staring outside at the hundreds of Capitol citizens screaming her name. It was different, certainly. Back in Six, barely anyone paid her recognition.

"Wow," Kara said, her heap leaping out of her chest. It was truly nerve-wrecking, to have an entire city cheering your name.

In little time, Kara was up from her seat and perched at the windowsill. Her hands were pressed against the glass like a young child into a candy store, her nose squished onto the window.

Zackary stepped from behind her, whistling at the crowd of Capitolians. They were both amazed, Kara just a bit more.

"Can you believe it?" Kara said, chuckling at Zackary's shock. When she looked at him, a small bubble of happiness blossomed in her heart. The way he stood timidly, smiling at anyone who looks his direction.

In a way, he reminded her of Casey. Her best friend, the brother she never had and the person who sent her to prison.

During a dark, misty night, Casey grew rebellious, a sudden anger growing in his stomach after a Peacekeeper had taken his ration of food without Casey's consent. Walking home with vision blotted with red, he had decided to vandalize a nearby building, much to Kara's disapproval.

Kara had begged him, tried to reason with him against challenging authority. She truly cared for her, her heart was nearly pulled out of her chest when he went against her will.

As she had predicted, Casey was caught. In a desperate, fearful manner, he rushed to Kara's apartment. He confessed what he had done. But vandalism wasn't it all. When the owner of the building heard Casey, he went outside in confusion. Upon his realization his property was being trespassed, he threatened to call the Peacekeepers. But not before Casey had panicked and beaten him to pulp.

Kara's breath was stuck in her throat when he cried to her, asking her to forgive him. She did it without a second thought, taking him under her wing immediately. When the authorities arrived, she was taking his blood-soaked shirt to the laundry. Her clothes were wet with crimson and she had looked as much of suspect as Casey. Then they came for her, cuffed her wrists together as they lead her to prison.

And not one moment did she regret it. Casey was smart, witty and her best friend. If his safety required her suffering, she would accept it. Anything was better than betrayal to Kara.

"Kara?" Zack said suddenly, an expression of worry painted across his face. "Are you alright?"

She was wrong to think of the two, to compare them. It was a mistake, one that would only make her grief.

"Yes," she blurted out, almost too quick. "Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

Zackary didn't respond, but he just sullenly smiled.

"Okay, lovebirds," their Mentor, Adolf, interrupted them. "There are bloodthirsty animals outside of these trains and they won't hesitate to tear the skin off of your bones. And don't even get me started on the Capitolians."

Katya gasped in offense, raising a manicured hand to her mouth.

"And the only way to survive," Adolf continued, "is to keep walking. Don't stop, for no one. Not even if President Leonides himself appeared in that crowd and asked you to stop because they will crowd around you like a flock of birds. And in that frenzy of people, something tragic could happen. And don't answer too many questions, you don't want to reveal all your secrets, do you?"

"No, sir," Kara said, her hands folded across her lap. Zackary acted as if he didn't even hear Adolf and instead, proceeded to look out the window.

"Good," he said, taking a deep breath before striding over to the doors with two children in his wake. He had obviously invested in Kara's survival over Zackary, considering she actually cooperates and listens to him. Those tributes always seem to make it the furthest.

Kara, on the other hand, takes the whole situation in a whole other perception. She believes that Zackary will make it much further than her. She knows that she's weak, unable to murder anyone. It may be a good moral, but not in the Hunger Games. Yet, she was prepared to carry any cross anyone couldn't bear.

"Anyhow," Katya said, her octaves rising as she sashayed over to the doors, "it's showtime."

The doors slowly slid open, as if obeying the Escort's every command. This time, the ongoing shouts of Capitolian people are as loud as ever. They rock the train, their fists pounding against the metal sheets to beckon us out.

Kara had never experienced this horseplay before, even in prison. Then again, most of the prisoners were sedated or have been previously drugged. Only Kara, the spirit who had avoided trouble and the one that followed the rules, was the one prisoner that was able to breeze through jail without many issues.

Furthermore, Kara had never would've expected such rough-housing from these Capitol citizens, who were barrelling over each other and children who screeched and pulled at hair as they sat on their parents' shoulders.

Kara couldn't help, but smile. It made her bluster with excitement and gratitude that all these people took time out of their days for her.

These strange people shouted at her, but much to her surprise, she was alright with it. Their fingers reached and tugged, grasping at any of the fabric that she was wearing.

In all honesty, it someone made her crave this feeling. This joyful sense of friendship and support brought red to her cheeks, making her flush dangerously.

"Kara!" A reported shouted, shoving a microphone into her face. "What's your favorite color?"

"How do you like the Capitol?"

"Are you excited for these year's Games?"

But after dismissing all these questions with a simple answer, only one captivated her and made her really think about what was in store for her.

"Who are you, Kara?"

Who is she? Well, Kara is everyone's therapist, someone with an aspiration to be an inspiration. Who was she during you?

These people, her friends, had the audacity to believe that her life revolved around them. Well, it was somewhat true. Yet, what about Kara. Who was Kara, some who helped, someone was always there.

Well, who was there for Kara? Who was there for her after all these years she's dedicating to helping others, putting everyone else before her and yet, when the time came that she finally acknowledged her own needs… no one was there to comfort, no one to support her, no shoulder to cry on.

But still, she carried on. She fended for herself, she endured through the difficult times. So, who was she?

"I am Kara Arsenault," she said. "And in that Arena, no one will ever take me for granted again."

"Kara, Zackary," Adolf muttered, waving them along. "Put some pep in your steps, grandmas."

"That's it for today, folks!" Katya yelled over the cacophony of cheers, ushering the pair along. She urged them forward, gently shoving their backsides until they were across the velvet line and into the Tribute Center.

When the door closed, the silence welcomed them like a blanket of sincerity. Kara felt strange, especially after a sudden cease of noise. The ringing was constant in her ears, tainting her blood with adrenaline despite having escaped the Capitolian crowds.

Kara actually missed the Capitolians, missed their eager hands and desperate fingers. She knew that regardless of the Capitol citizens gruesome hobby for hosting such a morally-wrong competition as the Hunger Games, they were internally innocent.

Maybe they were just born in the wrong place, a location where their hearts weren't able to function or they were raised in the wrong mindset, but whichever, Kara knew that it wasn't their fault they were so mentally grisly.

The crisp and frigid air pricked her skin, flashing colors passing by her like a kaleidoscope. It all gave Kara a headache, staring at the bright colors. She just wanted to get into her bed at home and just lay down.

And to think, only three days ago, she was asleep in her cot, curled beneath the fireplace in her cottage. Oh, how everything has changed. First, she was Reaped to go into a death match, where she could be brutally slaughtered. Then, she met her father and Casey in the Visiting Room, together. And they didn't tear eachother apart. Now, she was swept onto a train and whisked into the Capitol. Where they adored her, loved her and cheered for her. It all felt like she took a drug and ended somewhere she really shouldn't be.

Adolf and Katya led them into a steel elevator, where the sudden lift sent Kara and Zackary to their knees.

"Woah," Kara said, pulling herself. "This place is weird."

Zackary nodded, following her lead. He softly shook his head, pressing his hands against the glass overlooking the entire lobby.

"Well, get used to it," Katya said, pressing a silver button labeled, PC, which stood for Preparation Center.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a pristine white corridor that seemed to lead into nothingness. Dim-lit torches filled the hallways, softly casting shadows that danced across the walls.

The candlelight flickered, illuminating the bright glow of Kara's cheeks. She twirled a strand of her dark-hazelnut hair around her finger, slightly tugging at it until it pulled at her scalp. The soft, prickling pain sent a realization through her, something to keep her focused.

"When do I get to lay down?" Kara asks, her legs aching even after a few meters. It seems like she's been walking for an eternity.

"When we reach the Remake Center, you'll be able to lay down. On a metal stretcher. As they pluck every inch of hair from your skin," Katya said, rather abruptly.

"About that," Adolf added, "make sure you let your Styling Crew do anything they want. If that includes stripping, drugs or painful procedures, you cannot say no. Your life depends on it, Sponsors are everything. Don't ruin your chances."

Kara nods, a feeling of fear washing over her. Zackary obviously pales, retreating back into the darker areas of the torch. He is an odd kid, but he is mysterious. Kara can't help, but wonder what's going on in his head, but she just can't tell. It's actually kind of frightening. But whatever is is: Kara is sure it's all positive conscience.

"Is it going to hurt?" Zackary squeaks, actually speaking.

"Y-"

"No," Kara clamped a hand above Adolf's mouth, leaping up to prevent the truth from spilling to Zackary. "Don't listen to him, Zack. Adolf is just trying to tease you."

Adolf pries her hands away from his face, sneering at her before pulling away.

Zack looks suspicious for a moment, but then he lightly smiles and turns his back.

All Kara could do was stare at the back of his black shirt, slowly fading into the corridor as he walked away with Katya. She spent a couple more moments watching him before the two turned a corner and disappeared.

"Kara," Adolf said, his voice suddenly soft. "You can't just babysit Zack all the time. He's going to have to face the harshness of life. And trust me, you can't protect him from the Arena. Nobody can, even if they tried their hardest." He was rubbing his bicep, where his ally stabbed him twenty years before.

Kara looks at him, first with anger and then with reconciliation. She dutifully nods, staring down at her shoes.

"Okay," Adolf said, leading himself along the rails. "Remember what I said."

Kara couldn't help but drift into thought, her mind raving on about Zack.

The cold steel of a knife in the air, the sudden whizzing as it rests in Zackary's stomach. She jumped with the imagery, fear clouding her thoughts.

The hallways didn't help the fantasy either, where every corner could be thief and every vent could lay an assassin. Kara lived一lives in District Six, where cocaine and morphling were sold at every stand, of course she'd be traumatized.

Suddenly, a giant, pearl-white door was standing in between her and the next room.

Adolf breathes, his breath clouding in a soft mist into the ventilation.

The lights began to dim, the low flicker of candlelight makes it look like those old soap operas in the Capitol, where a murderer popped through the walls and butchered the cautious homeowner.

"We're here," Adolf said, closing his eyes for a few brief moments before they snap open. "Go on."

The door slowly opens, revealing a large room, with arching pillars of white that seem to stretch into the high ceiling. Kara slowly steps forward, wary and curious. The door shuts behind her, seemingly echoing into infinity.

She spins around, as would any person, but the door wasn't there anymore. In it's place was gray metal.

"Welcome, dear," a new, smoother voice echoed from behind the vanity mirror. Suddenly, a group of about four beauty specialists stepped out, with strange idiosyncrasies that defined them

"My name is Elwella," she greets, her entire composure made of pure darkness. Black skin, black eyes, black hair and black leather. It was honestly frightening and it made goosebumps grow on Kara's arms. "This is Meridith, Ollivander and Lumphrus."

A young girl waved, her nails as long as a honeybadger and as sharp as a lion. Ollivander winked and Kara saw no strange surgical additions, except for the giant stick in between his legs. Kara doesn't even want to think about what he got modified. The last one, who she figured was Lumphrus, seemed to snarl at her until she realized that a permanent sneer was glued to his face.

They shove Kara into a chair, rather forcefully.

As the procedure continues, which includes nudity and pain, Kara hopes to believe that all her stylist crew's hearts were in the correct place.

They tear her clothes off, neglecting her consent and instead, sink her into a bathtub full of scorching hot water. The bubbles seemed to whirl, scrubbing any inch of dirt off of her skin.

Meridith places a mask over her face, one that stung, but also felt refreshing onto her face. Ollivander placed honey on her legs, before ripping off the wax paper in spite of Kara's pleads. She has to tell herself to let them do it, her life may depend on it. But human instinct on pain has taken over.

She struggles against Lumphrus as he curls her hair with a steaming iron, causing a soft burn on her neck. Little did she know that Lumphrus would be killed for burning a tribute, soon after the Opening Ceremonies.

Eventually, they sedate her with a prescribed morphling and tie her into the glass chair. A lux, velvet curtain was draped over the mirror, shielding Kara's image from herself.

Elwella does the finishing touches, spraying her hair with some sort of sticky substance and dabbing some more powder onto her cheeks.

"Oh, darling," Elwella says, as she backs away from the mirror. "You truly look marvelous, all thanks to us! You are going to tell well in the Games, considering your rebellious spirit we've observed here." She hears Lumphrus muttering before a resounding smack could be heard.

Meridith moves forward, yanking the curtain off of the velvet. And unfortunately, the girl in the mirror is not Kara Arsenault.

It is someone entirely different, a girl with flowing, hazel curls and sparkling, verdant eyes. It is someone with smooth, marble, polished skin. It is someone with sharp contours, with high cheekbones and sharp nose angles. It is anyone, but Kara.

Kara liked her unsymmetrical nose, she liked her clogged pores and her mud-strewn hair. If she ever saw a Victor in herself, someone who had dignity: it was not the girl looking at her in the mirror.

Kara did not smile, instead, she frowned and closed her eyes. Flashing images flooded through her memories, thoughts of her jubilant father, of Casey rushing into her arms, of the soft and strong arms of her dad closed around her. And she knows, she must know, that whoever she becomes, whether in the arena or today, she will make it back.

Kara will make it back to Six and no one will ever dare to change her again.

"Shoo," a raspy, rough voice shouted through the room. "Leave my prodigy alone."

Elwella's eyes go wide, as Kara sees in the mirror, and she grips Meridith by the arm and pulls her out of the vicinity. Lumphrus yelps before he dashes from the room, his curled black hair flying behind him as Ollivander follows suit.

"Who," Kara asks, struggling against the leather bounds, "are you?"

"It is I," the woman says, stepping into the light. "Emira. Your Stylist."

The lady was stranger than all four of Kara's crew combined, with pink, choppy locks of hair and a purple tail that grew from between her legs. She stood abnormally tall, like a sasquatch. She made Kara want to run, to hide, but all she could do was squirm against the ropes.

She began to scream, until Emira shushed her.

"I understand that I may look strange, especially to you District folk, but I am only here to aid you. In fact, creatures in the Arena will be much more gruesome than I."

"What are you going to do?" Kara said, shaking in her chair. Instead, Emira walked over and unlocked her, sending Kara tumbling to the floor as she crawls away from the much larger woman.

"Kara," Emira said, increasingly irritated, "I am not here to harm you."

After a few minutes of blind panic, Kara is helped to her feet and she is led into a dark room, where Emira comforted her with soft words and small smiles.

"Are you ready to be fitted into your costume?" Emira asks, rubbing Kara's back.

"Okay," Kara says, breathing out of her nose before she stands, patting down the thighs of her pants.

Emira smiles, her eyes strikingly pink and heads into the closet, before pulling out a plastic bag.

"What is that?" Kara asks, her eyebrows scrunching together in confusion.

Then, Emira pulls the outfit out of the bag and Kara's eyes widen in complete and utter fear.

It was a strait jacket.

 _Zackary Delancey, District Six, Prep. Centre and The Parade of Tributes:_

The heavy and thick fabric hugs his body, trapping the heat inside his jacket. It felt like he was a walking sauna, unable to escape.

"Is this really necessary?" He tries to squirm in his costume, but it completely surrounds Zack. It was uncomfortable, but worst of all, it reminded him of the memories.

The handcuffs that marked red lines into his wrists, proving to him exactly how helpless and savage he was.

"Of course," his Stylist, Megara, spat. Her hair was a brilliant crimson, a color that sent chills running down his spine. It might be his blood this time, instead of the landlord's, that spills across the floor.

Images run through his head: red, flowing blood. Like rivers of gushing fluids, maroon and shimmering. The shards of glass, the flower vase that Zackary had used to smash the man's head in. The water dripping from the lillies, the very flowers he picked for his mother, mixing with the blood. It was a gruesome sight, one that would be forever embedded in his mind.

"Why ever not? That costume must be the best in years. It'll really bring out the muscle in you," Megara waves her hand, a dismissal tone as she walks by his side.

"Where are we going?"

"To the station, of course. All the chariots are located there and it'll be the entrance tunnel."

"Oh. Where are we right now?"

"The Preparation Center. It is frequently used, therefore, you should get familiar with the layout. It's rather simple, actually."

"Oh. Is this where we sleep?"

"Oh, of course not. Your slumber dormitories and resting chambers are across this building, in the Tribute Tower, the TT, as commonly nicknamed."

"Oh. Where do we train?"

"Across that building, where most of the Capitol trainers reside."

"Oh. What are we-"

"Child, why are you asking so many questions? Of all my years, I've never met someone as provocative and sociable as you," Megara said, scoffing. "And they put on your clearance form: shy and timid. Shy and timid, my plastic ass."

"I suppose I'm just nervous," Zack said, ignoring the part where she called him irritable. "It is rather angsty when you're about to enter a death match.

Megara laughed, bursting out in high-pitched chuckling. "Oh, you think this is nerving? Just wait until you reach the Launch Room."

Zack clearly reddened, blood seeping into his brain. In Six and most of the Districts, they called the Launch Room the Stockyard, which was where they kept animals before they sent them off to slaughter or the Catacombs, where it is rumored that ghosts and unrest spirits wander.

"Oh, dear," Megara said, watching his orange face turn a violent shade of purple. "I don't mean to be insensitive."

"It's fine," he said, slowly exhaling. Pacing his breath helped him to calm his mind, it reminded Zack that he was alive. He was alive and he was inhaling the oxygen and he was still living. He was the same as everyone else, even the rich Capitolians or the starving orphans in Twelve.

They're all the same. They're living, walking, breathing and eating (well, some of them) human beings. And that is a right no one can strip Zack of that. For now..

The corridor of the Preparation Center is actually not very wide, for the filthy rich Capitol citizens. Though it is a tight fit, Zackary himself is not very wide. A sack of bones and flesh, the prison warden always called him.

People always stereotype prisoners as the type of men who enter as thin as stick and leave as a mountain of muscle and pure brutality. But that is simply a mirage made by the same people that locked them into the cells.

Bright light was filtering in through the large windows that hung on the walls, separating the tributes from the outside world of manufactories and concrete jungles. It was all a mirage, it seemed. A false image, a facade. That was Panem. Panem was nothing, but a fraud excuse for a nation. And seemingly, only Zackary noticed. But he wasn't angry, or depressed, no. He was merely disappointed. Disappointed that people cannot see outside of the picture.

And it was only Zackary. The measly, timid and introverted boy that sat in the corner of the room, isolated from all society that managed to look past the canvas. Into the void of fear and hope and rage and sadness and ultimately, it clawed at Zackary's mind.

It screamed at him because he was different, that he was a murderer. One of the hundreds of thousands in Panem that struggled to even feed their brothers, he wasn't different at all. He was an equal, a troubled boy who only needed guidance, but received none. He wasn't an outsider, no. He was what they called a wallflower.

A boy who isn't popular, but someone who is well known in the community. The one everyone stares at when he walks by them, the one that their eyes flicker to when the professor mentions chronic depression. The one they treat as an outcast. A misfit, someone who doesn't _belong._

But that was Zackary, he believed. The one they neglected and the one they ignored, but he did not care. For that was what shaped Zackary, it was what molded him into the boy he was today and no one will ever treat Zackary as an equal, but he was alright with that fact.

Because Zackary Delancey was not a loner or a pessimist or a creep; Zackary Delancey was a wallflower.

"Are you even paying attention to me?" Megara said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Hello? We've arrived at the end, the doors to the stables."

"What?" Zackary replied, his stupor swiftly ending. "Oh, yeah. Um, what should I do?"

"For one, you should take the advice I give you into account. Most tributes forget my information, my facts, my suggestions and they end up in a coffin on a train back to Six. They think that because I'm a Stylist and not their Mentor, of course my advice would purely be for the Preliminary Events. Oh, no. Those acts and performances still apply in the Games, so listen up, Zackary. Whatever you do out there, do not make yourself a target. Do not upset the Careers or develop any conflicts with the other tributes. Just be … your kind and shy self and you will be alright. Good luck."

With a final kiss atop his head, Megara throws open the brass doors and with a light pat, shoves Zack out of the corridor as the doors slam shut once again.

Almost immediately, his eyes begin to roam for Kara. She was always a kind soul, someone who never looked at him like he was creep. She managed to see the light in him. And as a bonus, she was quite pretty for a District Six woman and every time her hand brushed his, butterflies swim in his stomach.

But she was nowhere to be seen and many tributes were already stationed near their chariots.

Zack glanced around the stable before a trainer brushed past him and rudely directed him to his chariot, which was right in the middle of the assembly line. Great.

The chariot was a deep obsidian, dark and dreadful. Blue, flickering stones flashed across the sides of the vehicle and made it look like a starry night school. He saw no correlation with the beautiful chariot and his fashion atrocity of a costume.

He first noticed the Careers, from Districts One and Two, who stood huddled in the far side of the station. From afar, the District One tributes were jubilant, bright and colorful feathers. It fell to the floor like a cape. The District Two tributes looked like grey, stone statues from this angle and even their bare butts were visible. It seemed that they were both naked except for their breastplates.

"Hey," a sudden voice piped from behind him, followed by a soft tap.

Zackary spun around, fear and panic evident in his eyes. Though the only person was the morphling girl, who Adolf had made cruel jokes about. Zackary obviously relaxed, sighing inwardly as he smiled at her.

"Hello," he said, trying to keep his smile on his face.

"I like your costume," Soie said, her hands hooking around the tens of different loops on his outfit. "It's very pretty."

Zackary shuffled awkwardly, gently pushing her fingers away from his costume. In all honesty, the girl from Eight was quite pretty, despite her malnutrition. Zack could tell from her mocoa-brown roots that she had been once a beautiful brunette, but the morphling slowly deteriorated her body.

"I like yours as well," Zackary blushed, heat rising into his cheeks. Soie's costume was incredibly strange, yet not as strange as Zackary's. Instead of the usual kind and innocent look for District Eight they usually go with, the Eight Stylists decided to try a new intimidation tactic.

Soie's flexible elastic were tight against her figure and despite the amount of effort given to distract the audience from Soie's bare ribs and extreme thinness, it was difficult to draw attention away from someone as sickly as Soie, as offensive as it sounded.

On the elastic were needles, protruding metal knitting needles that pointed outwards like the quills of a porcupine. It was like a reverse pincushion, since the eye of the threat was glued onto the suit.

Zackary retreated when he got too close, for her was afraid he'd might impale himself on the tiny needles.

"My name is Soie," the girl murmured, offering a small grin. She held out her hand, before regretting her choice and pulling back. Yet, Zackary was not the type to let others down.

"I'm Zack," he said, before reaching beside Soie's side and interlocking his hand in hers, firmly shaking it as a smile brightens onto her face. She'd practically gleaming, a bubble of pure happiness.

"Nice to meet you," she said, as she tried to shake his hand as politely as she could.

As Zackary was about to say another word, a sudden, blaring bell sounded through the stables and shortly after, a woman's voice was heard over the speakers.

"Welcome, tributes! This is the entrance tunnel to our beloved Avenue of Tributes and you will all be leaving by District this year, as tradition calls. Please return to your chariots, as the Ceremony will begin in less than ten minutes. I am certain we will make this parade a success and may the odds be ever in your favor," the woman said, with a voice familiar to every citizen in Panem. Arcadia Hillmont. She was the ever-popular idol of the Capitol, with her iconic fashion statements and pure talent for being a hostess.

Soie bowed her head, before shuffling back to her chariot, which was two behind Zack. As Zack led her back to District Eight's chariot, he briefly took notice of the District Eight boy stare at him. A judging and somewhat envious expression crossed his face, though it must've been because Zackary just stole his District Partner.

Well, you have no right to own anyone here anyway. Zackary must surely have the privilege to select his own friends.

As Jute, the District Eight boy, caught Zack's eyes flitting towards him, he gave him a silent salute before turning and lifting Soie into the chariot.

 _What a strange man,_ Zack thought to himself as he made his path back to the District Six chariot, as it was quite obvious with the prison theme. Jail bars were placed on the side of the silver carriage, but now, the horses were tied to the top of the chariot.

They softly neighed, their graying mane bristling as the brisk Capitolian breeze tumbled by. It was an amazing sight.

"Nice to see you again," a voice piped, smooth and elegant. Zackary turned around, to face Kara face to face with him. Her caramel-colored hair fell down her shoulders in regal, corkscrew curls and they bounced as she took every step.

Compared to Zack, she was a goddess.

"And you, too," he replied, flashing her a smile before he climbed into the chariot. It was a rather large vehicle, with six foot wheels and maybe 6 feet long. Though the worst factor was that the end had no barrier and Zack was certain that at least one person would fall out. And knowing himself, it would probably be him.

Kara looked at her reflection in the glassy chariot paint behind Zack, before taking his hand as she lifted herself onto the chariot. She was furiously blushing, her heart racing just as she touched the warm silkiness of his fingers. It might've been blossoming romance or it could've just been the nerves of the first Preliminary Ceremony. Or it could've been both: one time will tell.

For a while, all that could be heard were the cheers and shouts from outside the stables, where Capitolians were resting on golden chairs as they drink their bubbly champagne. Even the Careers were silent, their lips pursed in angst. Despite all the advantages, every person has their weaknesses and public appearance is a common fear all humans share.

Then suddenly, it was eerie silence, even from outside of the station. Zack could only assume that someone important was speaking, and he believed that he was correct when the giant, brass doors began to slowly open and the chariots lurched forward, sending Zack almost tumbling over the railing.

"Oh, god," he said, muttering a prayer of safety as the horses began to trot once again, their gallops echoing in perfect harmony and unison. He could only guess how many years the trainers and the animals spent practicing. These horses, which was Zack's first sighting, must be extremely intelligent beasts.

"We can do this," Kara said, attempting to hold his hand. However, since their straitjacket limited their arm movement, she was only able to touch their fingers.

The giant screens from inside the stable lit up with flashing images of District One, from almost every view possible. The screen flashed from features of the tributes, Garnet and Glory, who were basked in admiration and love to the hosts, who made flattering comments on every act that these tributes played.

Zack could see their costumes better now, from this view. District One was dressed in beautiful feathers, like that of a tropical bird. Red, blue, yellow, green and purple. But the most shocking of them all were the live animals that were resting atop their limbs, like the parakeets that are standing on Garnet's shoulders. They are cute, small and adorable.

"Her Stylist must've done that to symbolise her as a parakeet. A witty analogy, if I'd say so," Kara whispered, keeping her eyes locked to the doors.

She also wore a large headdress, created with feathers that spreaded in every direction. Unlike Glory, who had a squawking parrot atop his head. It is imitating random words thrown at Glory from the crowd, like 'love me, Glory' or 'Please marry me!' Another animal was clawing into Glory's forearm, a toucan who was a majestic sight on his arm.

Surely, these two will pose a giant and lethal threat to Zack and Kara's survival.

Garnet waved her hand, blowing kisses to the audience and you could hear the hundreds of adolescent boys peeing their pants in excitement. Then Glory peeled his shirt off, much to the unstoppable screaming of older women.

"District One, our opening District, sure looks amazing! Make sure you don't forget to Sponsor the enthusiastic Garnet and the lethal Glory!" Arcadia Hillmont announces, atop an official, over-looking deck.

Then, the attention was drawn away from the Ones and instead, the Two tributes were standing and staring in their place. This time, the stoic and rambunctious tributes from District Two were merely staring ahead, not even acknowledging the crowd. This tactic was always popular, but few could master it.

Kit and Paget did just that, as their eyes were stony grey while they looked onwards, looked towards the future, towards their possible victory.

An entirely different approach to their costumes, as opposed to District One's bright and flamboyant Parade outfits. Kit and Paget were dressed as stone statues, as concrete, gray and silver paint is coated across their skin to make them look fossilized beings.

As their chariot, which was also painted grey, moved forward, flakes of concrete and dust falls from their bodies, like the trembling of the ground as the drums sound. They were stark naked, except for articles of steel armor. Paget wore a breastplate and Kit wore a tunic. Below the waist was uncovered, for the Stylists considered the height of the brim of the chariot would be high enough to cover it.

Stony armor and stony eyes, frightening humans in themselves. It was enough to send shivers down Zack's spine. For all he knew, it could be their swords that cut deep into his stomach.

The loud chorus of cheering grows ever closer, the noise started to pound against the walls. Dust falls from the ceiling, from the hung chandeliers that brighten the stable.

"Wow, they surely made District Two the scariest of the bunch. They are certainly so courageous! It would be a good decision to Sponsor the daunting Kit and the untamed Paget!" Arcadia shouted, once again.

As the screens begin to switch to a different image, of the District Three chariots.

Then, a cocoon of wires and cords appear, seemingly dressed as the cold-hearted Tallis and manic Electra. The wires crisscross their bodies, tied around every loose patch of flesh. If the cords weren't there, it would only be a flashing silver, spandex suit.

Similar cords were tied around their chariots, and Zack is sure there is much more to the costume than some junk wrapped around a tight suit.

"District Three seems to have followed the traditional approach! It would rack in profit if you remembered to Sponsor the indifferent Tallis and excitable Electra!" Arcadia shouted, as she shifted in her chair.

However, before Zack could continue to contemplate, the screen quickly changed to the District Four chariot, which was slowly riding from the entrance tunnel.

They looked fantastic, basking in the glory of their five minutes of fame.

Cari and Hudson looked actually quite similar to the District One costumes, which were equally vibrant and colorful. Yet, the District Four chariots were obviously trying to achieve a whole new objective.

Bright, radiant paint ran down their arms and legs, making them appear as tropical fish. However, there were beads of water that rolled down their bodies, glistening like lubrication on their chiseled, bare bodies. Cari's hair is tied into a loose bun, with uncombed, hazel-brown hair falling down her shoulders. She's wearing a short, skin-tight dress, which was roughly chopped at the brim. Hudson wears a similar attire, with his hair decorated in tropical flowers. He's shirtless, and he adorns only tropically-colored tights.

Zack had to admit, both of the tributes looked stunning. Though they didn't seem as dangerous as District Two, they were frightening in their own way.

Cari was a kind character though, with a warm heart and a considerate mind. And Hudson, well, he was something different. You could never really tell what he was going to do, he was unpredictable.

"Oh, District Four never fails to amaze us all once again! This pair looks fascinating, most likely the most grand we've seen so far! It will not be a mistake to Sponsor the kind Cari or the bulky threat, Hudson!"

Before long, the screen once again switches to District Five.

The partners were dressed as telegraph wires, with cords wrapped around their bodies like a cocoon. Harmless electric currents seemed to run through the wires, generating a soft buzz that reminded Wyatt and Elizabeth of their home-District. Their chariots also reflect this design and although it is typical, it is alluring.

Zack turned uneasily in his chariot, as their chariot was about to exit the tunnel. His stomach seemed to swirl even as the crowds of Capitolians chant Elizabeth and Wyatt's names over and over again.

"It is never a regrettable decision when you decide to Sponsor the District Five partners, for they always have tricks and traps up their sleeves and I am sure our warm-hearted Elizabeth and positively cruel Wyatt have just that," Arcadia speaks, smiling into the camera.

Then, Zack's chariot lurched forward once more until the sun was casting a yellow, mellow glow unto their chariot and their shadows danced across the Avenue. Fear bubbled in Zack's stomach, his mind beginning to fog. It was all so intimidating, with almost everyone staring at him. Public appearances were his worst nightmare and it seemed he was living it right now.

Kara's hand brushed his and a small smile grew on her face, as the crowds cheered even louder. But this time, Zack wasn't as half as scared as he was before.

It was a moving moment, when someone actually didn't fear him. For who he is, for what he is. People back in Six always judged Zack and his family, for they were the Delancey family. The one with the deranged father who is always jumpy and unpredictable.

The family with the deconstructing house, the family whose father grows rampant as each year's mandatory viewing arrives, the family who are suffering from chronic poverty and cannot manage to feed themselves. Society is always a monster to everyone, but it seemed like the universe couldn't hate Zack's family enough.

One night, the Games were really grueling and the District Six girl was being mutilated by a ravaging mutation. Zack's father couldn't take it much longer, the disgusting sight of unjust blood spilt. He ran from the house, which was after the curfew. As expected, a Peacekeeper took notice of him, but spared him and merely gave him a warning. But the Delancey man was way past stabilized. He charged, attempting to harm the Peacekeeper and was shot down.

He succumbed to the rumors of the public, for he could not take it anymore. From then on, people always expected the same to happen with Zackary. He would break, he would crack and therefore, everyone must detach themselves from the so-called inwardly-troubled boy. But he was never like that, he never had suicidal thoughts and never wanted to hurt somebody.

But then, one day the landlord of his mother's apartment knocked on their door and demanded a payment, for they haven't been paying the rent for the last three months. With his mother in her condition, who was usually intoxicated, she could never earn a job. And Zack, who everyone avoided, couldn't be hired either. But his brother, Blake, earned an occupation, but separated himself from the family for fear of comparison or relation. It was a sick move.

Then, the landlord began to grow impatient and violent and began to hurt Zack's mother, and he couldn't handle the sight of his mother being harmed. So he grabbed a vase and slammed it onto the man's head, unintentionally killing the man. But to the community, everyone thought is was on purpose, an intention. He came from a crazy bloodline anyway, they said. But he tries to be kind, he tries so hard, but no one ever notices his efforts. Except for Kara.

He was jailed and even then, the prisoners all stayed away from him. And he knew, at that moment, that he despised that stupid, labelling name of Delancey.

He never hears what Arcadia said about him, nor Kara.

Slowly, the screen changes from Zack and Kara to the District Seven tributes, Rowanne and Easton.

District Seven this year is a grueling sight, as paper-thin designs as crafted, much like origami and glued to their costumes. It emphasizes the point of hundreds of lumber mills in Seven, which produce millions upon millions of stacks of papers almost everyday. The District Seven tributes look not until the costumes from the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games, Zackary notices. The year Katniss Everdeen and her lover, Peeta Mellark raised the handful of berries and destroyed the social system of Panem.

"You will profit when you choose to Sponsor the elegant Rowanne and the charismatic Easton, so cast in your paychecks!" Arcadia announces, her hair bouncing as she spoke.

Zackary, by now, was much more in sync with the cheering of the fans that before. He was comfortable, he felt the beating of the drum in his chest. The Anthem, the song of the champions on replay in his heart. It felt sensational.

The District Eight chariot was shown, and Zack immediately caught sight of Soie, the sweet darling he acquainted earlier and her protective partner, who he remembered was named Jute. Zack could still see his eyes, glued to him as he detached from Soie. It was not unlike the evil stare of a brother.

"Are you okay? Do you you know them?" Kara asked, even as she clutched the sides of the chariot.

"Yeah," Zack said, taking his eyes off of the screen. "We met in the stables. Guess they took a long time trying to prepare you."

"More like they had a hard time trying to catch me," she said, rolling her eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing," Kara responded, assuring him with doe eyes and a soft smile.

Arcadia talks little about the District Eight partners, quickly complimenting their Stylists for their creative imagination and broad knowledge of fashion. Though Zack could already tell that the pincushion design was not popular and is actually regarded as a fashion violation. The same color scheme, especially such a dreary color as grey, used frequently through the creation of the outfit will bore out the spectators.

And so, by far, the cameras fixate on District Eight the least.

"A round of applause for our lucidly sweet Soie and the incredibly altruistic Jute! Make sure you cast in your bets, the stands are private and placed right outside the stadium if you would consider filling out an application. Remember, it could earn you a one way ticket straight into stardom if your predicted tribute achieves victory!" Arcadia sips on her fresh ale, before cueing the screens to turn to District Nine.

As expected, the giant, black projections hung from the rafts of the Avenue of Tributes change to the District Nine pair, who are clothed in strange and different wardrobe. Golden and mellow colors are combined in one headdress, which was giant and resembled a crown of feathers. Red, war paint is drawn down their skin, a mark of violent, a symbol for fighters.

Zack, who tried to pay attention at the community school, could vaguely remember what the District Nine tributes were wearing. It was something like American, like Native or Indian. Maybe Native Americans?

The girl, who had striking black hair and glossy caramel eyes, from District Nine wore a short, rugged brown dress made from real deer skin moccasins. Her hair is tied into long braids, that feathery accessories are tied into. Obviously, the original Indian tribes never had these type of clothing. The Capitol took these ideas and made it their own, as they did everything else. It was a culture genocide, Zack learned in school, and it seemed like the Capitol was doing the same.

The boy, who was bulky and large, with filed muscles and bulging veins from Nine followed the same style, with his long hair now tied into a small braid and he was cloaked in what appeared to be buffalo skin, as disgusting as it sounds.

"Wow, surely, District Nine is going to be the District to beat this year. With the dashing looks and fiery attitude of Etsumi and the determined, loyal and extremely intellectual man, Tiller, they'll be close to unstoppable. And Tiller, oh boy, he is a hulking rock of pure muscle. I'd be scared if I were in the same Arena as him," Arcadia said, with fascination pouring out from every word.

Zack agreed with her, he was terrified with just being in an Arena. Being in an Arena with a giant of a Loyalist makes it all the worse.

Very soon, the screens switch to the District Ten chariot, whom are dressed as animal hunters. The two District partners, Minx and Shepard, are wearing animal hides across their backs and over their heads. Minx, the half-insane prostitute, isn't freed from the chains of indignity even now, in the Capitol. Her Stylists must've have an easy job fitting her into the short, tiny dress which hugged her curves. A small coyote hide is draped over her back like a cape and small bones are tied into her hair. Shepard is dressed in similar attire, with a giant lion head over him and wearing the rest of the hide on his back. Though their costumes were fierce, District Ten wasn't half as unnerving as District Nine.

"And we are almost coming to a close with District Ten, who are dressed as animal hunters! What a unique idea! And Minx, that lovely darling, it will not be waste rooting for her victory. And Shepard, well, he seems like one hell of a fighter."

District Eleven is then featured on the screens, who are dressed as rose cherubs. With bright red colors and budding flowers, they were not unlike the poppies that grew on bushes in Eleven. Sweet, red seeds are tossed onto Talya and Caspar's heads, to accentuate the beauty in nature. Both of their chocolate-colored locks are frizzy, making it look curly and sweaty under the sun. They're wearing denim overalls over their white, plain shirts. Though they have creative costumes, their moments of recognition is lost when an outburst of screams and gasps erupt from the beginning of the line.

District's Three dominates the screens once again, as their chariot and costumes light up in a parade of light and beauty. It flashes across the dimming sky, illuminating the Parade for all to see. It's so bright, it's not unlike staring into the Sun.

Talya, who is red with anger, sneers at the screens. She's definitely furious, for this was her first chance to make a good impression and the District Three pair stole it all away.

Arcadia didn't even mention the Elevens much, all she called them was splendid and popular. She was much too focused on the alluring spectacle of the District Three chariot.

By a landslide, the District Eleven tributes have an even shorter screen-time as the District Eight chariot.

Though by District Twelve, when most crowds are beyond boredom, the tributes there have at least a more extended time than the District Elevens.

Unfortunately, they are typically dressed as lumps of coal. Small lumps of charcoal is glued to their flesh, to make them look like actual ores. Coal dust is also sprinkled onto Sylvie and Troye, over their thick miner suits and the traditional miner hats.

Then, Arcadia mentioned how noble and humble the District Twelve tributes always were and how Sylvie and Troye were the epitome of kindness. Zack disagrees, as Sylvie managed to escape a troop of Peacekeepers during the Reapings for a straight five minutes.

Then, the anthem begins to draw to a close and the chariots pull up into a circle below the Presidential Box, as President Leonides steps onto the balcony and raises a glass of blood-red wine.

"Welcome, one and all, to the Parade of Tributes of the One Hundredth Hunger Games. This ceremony, this event, marks the commencement of the beginning of the end. It will be phenomenal, it will be remarkable. And with these batch of tributes, I am certain this year's Hunger Games will appease all of the nation's crave for quality entertainment and for the Hunger Games! Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor," President Leonides said, raising his glass as if to honor the Hunger Games.

No, if the Hunger Games is hell, then President Leonides is Satan.

And then Satan raises the cup to his lips and the dark liquid drips down his chin, falling down the balcony like blood rain. A small speck of wine splatters unto the City Circle and Zack wonders if his own blood will be as red as wine when it is spilt in the Arena.

 **xxx**

 **Thank you so much for waiting! Honestly, I feel so disappointed in myself for releasing such a delayed chapter! School has been rough and I've been so busy, but enough of my excuses, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. It was pretty long. Maybe even the longest yet!**


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